Suddenly on the floor, tipping from the edge of the couch, her pumps fell with a crash. She had slipped them off surreptitiously, concealing the operation with her skirts. She sprang on the rug in her green stocking feet, snatching up the indiscreet pumps, and retreating to the closet, but without confusion.
"What are you doing now?" she said, bobbing out suddenly.
He was standing by the chrysanthemums, reaching up.
"I was wondering if they were real."
"Imitation?"
"You don't know that trick," he said maliciously. "A great invention of one girl I knew. You ought to know it! She had three vases, chrysanthemums, roses, violets, all imitation. She said they were the only flowers she cared for; so, when orders came in, all the florist did was to telephone the amount he would credit to her account!"
"Was the florist Pouffé?" asked Doré, stopping short and laughing.
"One of them. But the real touch was when the admirer called. She would place the vase of roses, say, on the mantel,—out of reach, naturally,—blow a special perfume in the room, and say:
"'My! how wonderfully fragrant those roses are!'"
Doré felt divined; she laughed, conscious of a telltale color.