“You sent me a note this morning,” began Clara, after an awkward pause.
“A note?” he asked, in astonishment; “I?”
“Yes, with the flowers—”
“YES, WITH THE FLOWERS—”
“Yes, I did send some flowers—roses——”
“Into which this note was stuck,” went on Clara, freezingly. “Here it is—do you deny having sent it?”
And she handed the miserable man a piece of paper, on which he read, to his consternation—
“Don’t forget the old boots you said you would give me last week.”
Uilenspiegel.