"Ah! you have a bouquet."
"Yes, madame; I intended to offer it to you when I called, but I was not fortunate enough to be admitted."
"It is very pretty."
Monsieur Plays walked timidly to Albert's side, and murmured:
"Your bouquet is charming; I was saying to myself: 'It smells very sweet here, and it can't be me.'"
"Will you condescend to accept it, madame?"
"I ought not to, for I am sure that it wasn't intended for me; but I am so fond of flowers! Well, give it to me."
She took the bouquet and held it to her nose.
"It is very sweet," she said; "it perfumes the whole room. But, no matter; I detest you, I will never forgive you while I live, I forbid you to come to my house any more."
"Oh! madame, the idea of bearing malice to such an extent as that! and for what? for a misunderstanding, a blunder perhaps, but in which you surely cannot believe that there was any intention to offend you. No, you will not be so cruel—you will allow me to continue to call upon you."