"Yes: selected with taste—great taste, an't they?" said I; and I cannot think what whim it was possessed me to go off in such praise of the bouquet.
"Pretty well," said Fred.
"Pretty well! my dear Fred; if you'll only look and attend, you'll own that the person who composed this bouquet must have known all the true effect of colours."
"Indeed," said Fred; as I thought very oddly; so I went on.
"Every colour harmonizes; the light, you see, falling exactly in the right place; and yet everything arranged so naturally—so harmoniously. The white is precisely where it should be, and"—
"Is it truly?" and saying this, Fred twitched from among the flowers a note that like a mortal snake as I thought it lay there.
"Why, it's a letter!" I cried.
"It looks like it," said Fred.
"It was brought by a gypsey," said I; and I felt my face burning, and could have cried. "It's a mistake."
"Of course," said Fred: "what else, my love? Of course, a mistake."