"I'll tell you!" cried Sharlee, nearly bowled over by a brilliant inspiration. "A great many men that I know make it a rule to send flowers to girls that are sick, and—"
"Flowers!"
"It does seem foolish—such a waste, doesn't it?—but really you've no idea how mad girls are about flowers, or how much real joy they can bring into a sick-room. And, by changing the water often, and—so on, they last a long time, really an incredible time—"
"You recommend flowers, then? Very well," he said resolutely—"that is settled then. Now as to the kind. I have only a botanical knowledge of flowers—shall we say something in asters, perhaps, chrysanthemums or dahlias? What is your advice as to that?"
"Well, I advise roses."
"Roses—good. I had forgotten them for the moment. White roses?"
A little shiver ran through her. "No, no! Let them be the reddest you can find."
"Next, as to the cost of red roses."
"Oh, there'll be no trouble about that. Simply tell the florist that you want seventy-five cents' worth, and he will give you a fine bunch of them. By the way, I'd better put his name and address down on a piece of paper for you. Be sure to go to this one because I know him, and he's extremely reliable."
He took the slip from her, thanked her, bowed gravely, and turned to go. A question had risen involuntarily to the tip of her tongue; it hung there for a breath, its fate in the balance; and then she released it, casually, when another second would have been too late.