The Florist: "That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost oudt. It is coing to be a very bopular rhoce."
The Second Lady: "How very white it is! It seems not to have the least touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!"
The Florist: "It iss gold-looging."
The Second Lady: "What do they use this rose for? For—for"—
The Florist: "For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon dteas, dtinners, funerals"—
The Second Lady: "Ah, that is shocking! I can't have it, then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost her only child—a young girl—and I wish it to be something expressive—characteristic—something that won't wound them with other associations. Have you nothing—nothing of that kind? I want something that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl, and yet—Haven't you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not this deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some kind of lily?"
The Florist: "Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas? Hyacinths? Marcuerites?"
The Second Lady: "No, no; they won't do, any of them! Haven't you any other kind of roses, that won't be so terribly—terribly"—She looks round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.
The Florist: "Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel; Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine—these pink ones; they are sister rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks"—
The Second Lady: "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to be a flower invented that would say something—pity, sympathy—that wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything? Some flowering vine?"