The Florist: "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"—
The Second Lady, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he trails on the counter before her: "Yes, that is very beautiful; and it is girlish, and like—But no, it wouldn't do! That perfume is heartbreaking! Don't send that!"
The Florist, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?"
The Second Lady, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering vine."
The Florist: "Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get you some of that other chasmin—kindt of push, that gifs its berfume after dtark"—
The Second Lady: "At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale green flowers, that are not like flowers—no, they wouldn't do! I shall have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?"
The Florist: "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam."
The Second Lady, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great many of them. Have you plenty?"
The Florist: "As many as you lige."
The Second Lady: "Well, I don't want any of these hard little buds. I want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open, and fragile-looking—something like her." The first lady starts. "Yes: like this—and this—and this. Be sure you get them all like these. And send them—I will give you the address." She writes on a piece of the paper before her. "There, that is it. Here is my card. I want it to go with them." She turns from the florist with a sigh, and presses her handkerchief to her eyes.