The Young Man, examining the petals of the roses: "Ah, that is very curious. It is a caprice, though."
The Florist: "Yes, it is a kind of sbordt. That rhoce should be berfectly whidte."
The Young Man: "On the whole, I don't think it will do. I will take some of those pure white ones. Bride, did you call them?"
The Florist: "Yes, Pridte. How many?"
The Young Man: "Oh, a dozen—two dozen; I don't know! I want very long, slender stems, and the flowers with loose open petals; none of those stout, tough-looking little buds. Here! This, and this, and all these; no, I don't want any of those at all." He selects the different stems of roses, and while the florist gets a box, and prepares it with a lining of cotton and tissue-paper, he leans over and writes on a card. He pauses and puts up his pencil; then he takes it out again and covers the card with writing. He gives it to the florist. "I wish that to go into the box where it will be found the first thing." He turns away, and encounters the lady's eyes as she chances to look toward him. "I beg your pardon! But"—
The Lady, smiling, and extending her hand: "I felt almost sure it was you! But I couldn't believe my senses. All the other authorities report you in Rome."
The Young Man: "I returned rather suddenly. I just got in this morning. Our steamer was due yesterday, but there was so much ice in the harbor that we didn't work up till a few hours ago."
The Lady: "You will take all your friends by surprise."
The Young Man: "I'm a good deal taken by surprise myself. Two weeks ago I didn't dream of being here. But I made up my mind to come, and—I came."
The Lady, laughing: "Evidently! Well, now you must come to my Saturdays; you are just in time for the first one. Some one you know is going to pour tea for me. That ought to be some consolation to you for not having stayed away long enough to escape my hospitalities."