"You are lucky to catch me at all," she said. "I have an engagement up-town at three."
"Do you always wear the national costume?" he said, indicating her Russian blouse.
"Yes, always."
"But my flowers, Miss Baxter?" he said, standing after she had motioned him to a seat; and the glance from under the prominent, hanging upper lids, that half covered the irises, seemed to sift wearily down at her.
"Your flowers? What flowers? Sit down!"
"My orchids—yesterday—"
"Oh! Your orchids." She stopped suddenly, as though confused. "You won't be angry? I know you won't when I tell you about it! I gave them away."
He took his seat, rubbed the back of one hand with long soft fingers, and slowly raised his mocking glance to hers.
"Ah—you gave them away?"
"Yes! and you'll quite approve," she said, meeting his inquisitorial scrutiny without confusion. "I'll tell you just how it was. I have a protégée, an old woman who sells newspapers under the elevated station—such an old woman! If I were rich I'd send her off to a farm and make her happy for the rest of her life! The first day I came to New York I hadn't any money. I didn't know what to do! I sold newspapers!"