"I am not hateful, darling. I am your true love."
"Oh, Oliver," she cried in despair, her feelings so varied, and so entangled, that she could not straighten them out. "What about Dorothy Perkins?"
"Dorothy Perkins is a flower."
"A—a what?"
"A flower. I mean to say, she is a creeper."
"Oliver," she laid her hand on his arm and peered anxiously into his face. "What is the matter with you? Aren't you well?"
"Yes, dear, I am well, but she is a creeper." He stretched out his arm and pointed. "There she is on the steps." Then he saw that she was really alarmed for his sanity.
"Grisel, darling, that rose, that rose climbing on the steps, is the only Dorothy Perkins I know."
"But——"
"No, it is true. I—I made her up, my little darling."