The Lady: "No; he didn't say. I have no idea where he is going. But wait a moment! I think I know where he meant to send the flowers."
The Florist: "Oh, well; that is all I want to know."
The Lady: "Yes, but I am not certain." After a moment's thought. "I know he wants them to go at once; a great deal may depend upon it—everything." Suddenly: "Could you let me see that card?"
The Florist, throwing it on the counter before her: "Why, soddonly; if he is a frhiendt of yours"—
The Lady, shrinking back: "Ah, it isn't so simple! That makes it all the worse. It would be a kind of sacrilege! I have no right—or, wait! I will just glance at the first word. It may be a clew. And I want you to bear me witness, Mr. Eichenlaub, that I didn't read a word more." She catches up a piece of paper, and covers all the card except the first two words. "Yes! It is she! Oh, how perfectly delightful! It's charming, charming! It's one of the prettiest things that ever happened! And I shall be the means—no, not the means, quite, but the accident—of bringing them together! Put the card into the box, Mr. Eichenlaub, and don't let me see it an instant longer, or I shall read every word of it, in spite of myself!" She gives him the card, and turns, swiftly, and makes some paces toward the door.
The Florist, calling after her: "But the attress, matam. You forgot."
The Lady, returning: "Oh, yes! Give me your pencil." She writes on a piece of the white wrapping-paper. "There! That is it." She stands irresolute, with the pencil at her lip. "There was something else that I seem to have forgotten."
The Florist: "Your flowers?"
The Lady: "Oh, yes, my flowers. I nearly went away without deciding. Let me see. Where are those white roses with the pink tinge on the edge of the petals?" The florist pushes the box towards her, and she looks down at the roses. "No, they won't do. They look somehow—cruel! I don't wonder he wouldn't have them. They are totally out of character. I will take those white Bride roses, too. It seems a fatality, but there really isn't anything else, and I can laugh with her about them, if it all turns out well." She talks to herself rather than the florist, who stands patient behind the counter, and repeats, dreamily, "Laugh with her!"
The Florist: "How many shall I sendt you, matam?"