“I don’t believe in playing with fire,” he retorted.
Thereafter their conversation drifted to other themes.
Well, the week glided by, and it was Sunday again; and with Sunday there occurred another change in the weather. The mercury shot up among the eighties, and the sky grew to an immense dome of blue. Sunday morning Hetzel said, “I suppose you haven’t forgotten that we are engaged to sup with Mrs. Berle this evening?” To which Arthur responded, yawning, “Oh, no; it has weighed upon my consciousness ever since you accepted her invitation.”
“I wouldn’t let it distress me so much, if I were you. And, by the way, don’t you think it would be well for us to take some flowers?”
“I suppose it would be a polite thing to do.”
“Then why don’t you make an excursion over to the florist’s on Third Avenue, and lay in an assortment?”
“You’re the horticulturist of this establishment. Go yourself.”
“No. Your taste is superior to mine. Go along. Get a goodly number of cut flowers, and then two or three nosegays for the ladies.”
“Ladies? What ladies?” demanded Arthur, brightening up. “Who is to be there, besides us and Mrs. Berle?”
“Oh, I don’t say that any body is. I thought perhaps one of her daughters, or a friend, or—”