“Yes, to-night; but these are not for that. They are having a florist in Washington do the decorating.”
“I see.” He put a hand inside his serge coat and drew forth a pocket-book. From it he brought to light a flattened, crumbling rose. He held it forth, smiling bravely.
“I want you to accept this as a present,” he said lightly. “It is no longer very lovely to look at, but”—with a bow of artificial gallantry—“it has been what I prized most in the world.”
“A present?” she repeated, while a tinge of color crept into her cheeks. “You mean——”
“A wedding-present, yes.” He wondered whether the smile on his face looked as ugly as it felt! She looked from the rose in his outstretched palm to his face and back again to the rose with a puzzled expression in her brown eyes.
“But I don’t understand,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” he answered gravely, “it was a poor joke.” He began to slip the dried blossom back into his pocket-book.
