"Well, it's the first really feminine thing—At least—no, I don't mean that. But it makes me think that you are more like other girls."
His explanation was interrupted by the entrance of the gardener.
"Will you select some of those orchids, please—if you like them, that is?" asked Putnam.
A shade passed over her face. "They are too gay for his—for Henry," she answered.
"Try to tolerate a little brightness to-day," he pleaded in a low voice. "You must dedicate this morning to me: it's the last, you know."
"I will take a few of them if you wish it, but not this one. I will take that little white one and that large purple one."
The gardener reached down the varieties which she pointed out, and they passed along the alley to select other flowers. She chose a number of white roses, dark-shaded fuchsias and English violets, and then they left the place. Her expression had grown thoughtful, though not precisely sad. They walked slowly up the long shady street leading to the cemetery.
"I am dropping some of the flowers," she said, stopping: "will you carry these double fuchsias a minute, please, while I fasten the others?"
He took them and laughed. "Now, if this were in a novel," he said, "what a neat opportunity for me to say, 'May I not always carry your double fuchsias?'"
She looked at him quickly, and her brown cheek blushed rosy red, but she started on without making any reply and walked faster.