“And you won’t tell to whom those violets go?”
“Not for anything.”
“Where do they go?”
The young lady shook her head.
“It is refreshing,” laughed Percival as he quitted the shop, “to find one woman who can keep a secret.”
He strolled down the arcade, gazing at the flowers and fruits, and the bizarre crowd that gently surged hither and thither, from the costermonger who came for his salad and radishes, to the “Dook” who sought his five-guinea bouquet; from the weedy-looking woman, smelling horribly of gin, who shelled peas, to the countess in search of an orchid to make up her priceless collection.
He was standing opposite a window wherein lay exposed a basket of Belle Angevine pears labelled “£30 a dozen,” when a hand was laid on his shoulder and a cheery voice exclaimed:
“Not thinking of that lot, Percival?”
“Not quite, Pommery. They’re a cut above me. My buying price is sixpence, and I falter at anything above that lordly sum.”
“They’re not much, these Angevines. I had a cut into one last night at a little dinner Baby Bowles gave six of us at the Star and Garter—a pre-marital affair.”