“Balmy,” said the boy.
“Mysterious disappearance of Child!” yelled the boy.
“Damn it,” thought Major Cypress. “I am in love. Oh, damn it!”
And he stared into the flower-laden windows of Mr. Solomon. Orchids there were therein, yellow and mauve and speckled. Roses, little, tight autumn roses. Pink and white anemones, hyacinths and jonquils, white Dutch lilacs and fat chrysanthemums in white and bronze. And there were carnations—right in the middle of that pageant was a splash of purple carnations.
“Carnations,” thought Major Cypress. “And, in particular, purple carnations. But that is not a proper way for an Englishman to win a wife. A little tender brutality is the way. But how to be tenderly brutal? Hell, I wish I was a Frenchman! A gardenia, on the other hand, may not come amiss. I will wear a gardenia. It will give me an air of high-minded depravity, which, they say, is attractive to young women.”
Major Cypress entered within, and in due course was served with a gardenia.
“For your button-hole, sir?”
“I suppose so,” said Major Cypress. “But not so much vegetable matter with it, please. I want a gardenia, not a garden. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir. Nice morning, sir.”
“I doubt it,” said Major Cypress.