"Out with it, Stella."
"She says she won't see you."
"Won't see me! Is that just what she said?"
The maiden hesitated. As a friend of both and strictly neutral, her position was awkward.
"Why—yes."
"Just what did she say, Stella?"
"She said, give him back his flowers and his note and tell him not to come again."
This was clear to the dullest lover. And the words cut deeper still as he saw in the face of the sharp eyed ambassadress an impressible gleam of pity—or exultation—he could not tell which. Cyrus blushed like a girl. For a moment his drowsy eyes gazed blindly at Stella, then at the flowers and the note as if trying to realize what had happened. The effort was painful. The flowers seemed to be jubilant in their gayety, and jeering at him. He had believed, until this moment, that he was prepared for the worst. He had also believed, from his knowledge of women in history and fiction that they changed their minds with ease—in short, that honest lovers never need despair. This blow seemed to paralyze his senses. But Pride came to his rescue. It made him realize the degradation of appearing a fool before Stella. So, collecting his scattered wits he raised his head and smiled upon the waiting maiden. There was a quivering of the lip, however, as he said in a manner laboriously offhand—and, of course, unsuccessful:
"Oh, well, I must try again. Thank you, Stella. Good-by."
As he reached the gate she saw him toss the flowers to the ground.