The Florist: "All rhighdt. How many you think you want?"
The Lady: "Send all you like! Masses of them! Heaps!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. And the chasmin?"
The Lady: "No; I don't want it now."
The Florist: "You want the smilax with them, then, I subbose?"
The Lady: "No, I don't want any smilax with them, either. Nothing but those white Bride roses!" She turns and goes to the door; she calls back, "Nothing but the roses, remember!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. I don't forget. No chasmin; no smilax; no kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces."
The Lady: "Only roses."
The Florist, alone, thoughtfully turning over the papers on his counter: "That is sdrainche that I mage that mistake about the attress! I can't find the oder one anwhere; and if I lost it, what am I coing to do with the rhoces the other lady ortert?" He steps back and looks at his feet, and then stoops and picks up a paper, which he examines. "Ach! here it iss! Zlipped down behindt. Now I don't want to get it mixed with that oder any more." He puts it down at the left, and takes up the address for the young man's roses on the right; he stares at the two addresses in a stupefaction. "That is very sdrainche too. Well!" He drops the papers with a shrug, and goes on arranging the flowers.