"Certainly," I answered. "Whatever a man esteems most precious—or useful—he has cases for! The commercial man has his sample cases—the medical man his instrument cases—the artistic man, his—"
"Divorce cases," he interrupted dryly.
"Alas, yes!" I sighed, my thoughts traveling back.
He wheeled slowly, giving me a glance which finally tapered off with the pink rosebuds in my hands.
"Then," he asked kindly, "if you're going to a very great affair this afternoon, why don't you keep these flowers and wear them yourself?"
I shook my head.
"But I'm a newspaper woman!" I said with dignity. "I might as well wear a vanity-bag as to wear flowers."
"Bosh! You're not a newspaper woman, Grace," he denied, still looking at me half sadly. "And yet—well, sometimes it is—just such women as you who do the amazing things."
"Mother thinks so, certainly!" I laughed. "But you meant in what way, for instance?"
He hesitated, studying me for a moment, while I held still and let him, for there's always a satisfaction in being studied when there's a satin rose in your hat.