“Do not be shocked, Madame Blouet,” said the deputy governor. “The evening that I dined here I found a wife; the ceremony will take place next month—with your permission.”
ETCHINGS: THE SAD HOUR
(H. A. Grace: For Short Stories.)
A florist-shop in the city of Philadelphia.
A lady, apparently about thirty years of age, dressed somberly in black, enters, and approaching the proprietor, who is behind the counter, demurely asks:
“Does anyone ever use those floral pieces that I see in the window, as wedding presents?”—at the same time indicating by a gesture that she referred to mementoes of immortelles there conspicuously displayed.
“Well,” answered the florist, somewhat astonished, “that is a use to which I have never before heard of their being put; still I know of no reason why they could not be so used, if one desired to give such an emblem as a token of esteem at such a time. What design would you think of using?” setting on the counter such emblems as Gates Ajar, a harp, and a lyre.
“I hardly know,” continued the lady, “still, I think possibly this one might answer,” picking up the lyre.
“What inscription would you wish on it?” asked the florist.