“Certainly.”
“And smell it?”
“Of course. Give it to me, Butterfly! Give it to me,” he wrote, with eager energy.
“Well, take it,” said Chrissalyn, smiling at the impossible request.
“I am in earnest. I really want it. Hold it in your hand directly in front of you, and see me take it.”
Laughing at what she believed to be a bit of pleasantry, she took the rose from her breast, and held it between her thumb and finger, saying, in mimicry of the old-time heroine of novels, “Please accept this token of my esteem.”
Instantly, quicker than a flash, with a suddenness indescribable, it disappeared, vanished completely, in the sight of both pairs of eyes. Whither? Could vacant space swallow a tangible object? Impossible. Yet this impossibility was accomplished.
The fact stunned them. Each looked in the face of the other, and clasped the other’s hand to make sure they were not dreaming.
“I should be frightened speechless if any one else than Prescott had done that,” said the Butterfly, pallid and trembling.
“Let us ask him about it,” said Cartice, who was shaken, too.