Taking the central arcade, the bureaucrat stopped to admire bouquets that would have brought tears of envy into the pretty eyes of Mlle. Louise of the Marché aux Fleurs, so fearfully and wonderfully were they made up, so delicious in their harmonies, such veritable tone-poems in their lustrous yet satisfying effects. Stepping into a flower-shop, he invested in a two-shilling moss rosebud reclining upon the petals of a sprig of stefanotis, attached to his coat by a young lady who addressed him by name.
“Mr. Pommery ‘as just been ’ere, Mr. Percival.”
“What! another bunch of violets?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied with a saucy laugh.
“Why, he must be spending a small fortune.”
“These wiolets come from Algiers.”
“And he sends a bunch every day?”
“Every day, sir.”
“And you are sworn to secrecy?”
“Yes, sir.”