"Gretchen is unkind," I observed.
"What matters it whether the rose be fresh or withered? It dies sooner or later. Nothing lasts, not even the world itself. You wish a rose, not because it is a rose, fresh and fragrant, but because I give it to you."
"You wrong me, Gretchen; I love a rose better than I love a woman. It never smiles falsely, the rose, nor plays with the hearts of men. I love a rose because it is sweet, and because it was made for man's pleasure and not for his pain."
"That sounds like a copy-book," laughed Gretchen. "The withered rose should teach you a lesson."
"What lesson?"
"That whatever a woman gives to man withers in the exchange; a rose, a woman's love."
Said I reproachfully: "You are spoiling a very pretty picture. What do you know about philosophy?"
"What does Herr know about roses?" defiantly.
"Much; one cannot pick too many fresh ones. And let me tell you a lesson which you should have learned among these roses. Nature teaches us to love all things fresh and beautiful; a rose, a face, a woman's love."
"Here," holding forth a great red rose.