Jen. I don’t think it was a camellia; I rather think it was a rose.
Spread. Nonsense, Jane—come, come, you hardly looked at it, miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty years, to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No, no, Jane, take my word for it, it was a camellia.
Jen. I’m sure it was a rose!
Spread. No, I’m sure it was a camellia.
Jen. (in tears). Indeed—indeed, it was a rose. (Produces a withered rose from a pocket-book—he is very much impressed—looks at it and at her, and seems much affected.)
Spread. Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don’t mean to say that this is the very flower?
Jen. That is the very flower! (Rising.)
Spread. Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it to you, you threw it away as something utterly insignificant; and when I leave, you pick it up, and keep it for thirty years! (Rising.) My dear Jane, how like a woman!
Jen. And you seized the flower I gave you—pressed it to your lips, and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune might carry you, you would never part with it; and—and you quite forgot what became of it! My dear Harry, how like a man!
Spread. I was deceived, my dear Jane—deceived! I had no idea that you attached so much value to my flower.