So I crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest her. I vaguely wondered if, at the distance, she had seen the love in my eyes when I thought myself unobserved.
"I thank you for those lovely roses," she said, smiling and permitting me to press her hand.
"Don't mention it," I replied. It is so difficult for a man to say original things in the presence of the woman he loves! "I have great news for you. It reads like a fairy tale, you know; happy ever afterward, and all that."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Do you remember my telling you of a rich uncle who lived in the
South?"
"Is it possible that he has left you a fortune?" she cried, her eyes shining.
"You have guessed it."
"I am very glad for your sake, Jack. I was beginning to worry about you."
"Worry about me?"
"Yes. I do not understand how a newspaper man can afford to buy roses four or five times a week—and exist." She had the habit of being blunt and frank to her intimate friends. I secretly considered it an honor when she talked to me like this. "I have told you repeatedly to send me flowers only once a week. I'd rather not have them at all. Last week you spent as much as $30 on roses alone. Mr. Holland does not do that for Ethel, and he has a million."