"Alas—"
"Send it with the rest."
The gardener braced himself against the river wall.
"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.
"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs—"
He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held the gardener with his eye, and bullied him.
"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"
"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."
"How do you know?"
"Dame, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."