The Lady: "I may have to come to them. Why do they call it the Pride?"
The Florist: "I didn't say Bridte; I said Pridte."
The Lady: "Oh, Bride! And do they use Bride roses for"—
The Florist: "Yes; and for weddtings, too; for everything." The lady leans back a little and surveys the flowers critically. A young man enters, and approaches the florist, but waits with respectful impatience for the lady to transact her affairs. The florist turns to him inquiringly, and upon this hint he speaks.
The Young Man: "I want you to send a few roses—white ones, or nearly white"—He looks at the lady. "Perhaps"—
The Lady: "Oh, not at all! I hadn't decided to take them."
The Florist: "I got plenty this kindt; all you want. I can always get them."
The Young Man, dreamily regarding the roses: "They look rather chilly." He goes to the stove, and drawing off his gloves, warms his hands, and then comes back. "What do you call this rose?"
The Florist: "The Pridte."
The Young Man, uncertainly: "Oh!" The lady moves a little way up the counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time to time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. "Haven't you any white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge, the merest touch."