‘There is a little poem of his about wearing a rose. It concludes:
‘“Then, how grace a rose?
I know a way.
Leave it, rather,
Must you gather;
Smell, kiss, wear it, and then throw away.”’
‘That is severe,’ he said.
‘But true. And you are no more won by Luise than the man who could so write of a rose was won by it. But that is not the way in which she has won Max Helmuth. And she does not care to win any other in that way.’
‘I believe you are right. She has more power than I thought. Then do you think she could really win me in the end?’
‘No; I should think not,’ said Sara. ‘I know some one who, I think, would be much more likely to win you.’