“Young sir,” said the policeman severely, “that will do from you.”
“I beg your pardon!” said the young writer with spirit.
“Granted,” said the policeman severely.
“But this is absurd! I am an honest man and I have asked you an honest question.”
The policeman unbent his expression so far as to say, with a significant look at the great house in the walled garden: “Young sir,” said he, “there danger lies for the likes of you. For the likes of her is not for the likes of you.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried our young gentleman. “This is a free country. This is not America!”
“Is it swearing at me you are?” said the policeman severely. “Now move on, young man, move on.”
“I will not!” cried our hero.
“Well, I will!” said the policeman, and walked away, while the young gentleman turned away from this unsatisfactory conversation just in time, alas, to see the scarlet flower drop from the white fingers; and the hand was withdrawn.
Now such was the effect of the hand and the flower on the young writer’s susceptible mind that he quite forgot to go and see his father, who thereupon cut him off with a shilling, which he sent to the young writer in the form of postage stamps. But the occasion was not without some profit, albeit of the spiritual sort, to the young man; for that very night he dreamed he was kissing that very hand, and who shall say that that was all he dreamed, for surely he is a sorry young man who cannot kiss more than a lady’s hand in a dream.