en.

"Gretchen is unkind," I observed.

"What matters it whether the rose be fresh or withered? It dies sooner
or later. Nothing lasts, not even the world itself. You wish a rose,
not because it is a rose, fresh and fragrant, but because I give it to
you."

"You wrong me, Gretchen; I love a rose better than I love a woman. It
never smiles falsely, the rose, nor plays with the hearts of men. I
love a rose because it is sweet, and because it was made for man's
pleasure and not for his pain."

"That sounds like a copy-book," laughed Gretchen. "The withered rose
should teach you a lesson."

"What lesson?"

"That whatever a woman gives to man withers in the exchange; a rose, a
woman's love."

Said I reproachfully: "You are spoiling a very pretty picture. What do
you know about philosophy?"

"What does Herr know about roses?" defiantly.

"Much; one cannot pick too many fresh ones. And let me tell you a
lesson which you should have learned among these roses. Nature teaches
us to love all things fresh and beautiful; a rose, a face, a woman's
love."

"Here," holding forth a great red rose.

"No," said I, "I'll keep this one."

She said nothing, but went on snipping a red rose here, a white one
there. She wore gloves several sizes too large for her, so I judged
that her hands were small and tender, perhaps white. And there was a
grace in her movements, dispite the ungainly dress and shoes, which
suggested a more intimate knowledge of velvets and silks than of
calico. In my mind's eye I placed her at the side of Phyllis. Phyllis
reminded me of a Venus whom Nature had whimsically left unfinished.
Then she had turned from Venus to Diana, and Gretchen became evolved: a
Diana, slim and willowy. A sculptor would have said that Phyllis might
have been a goddess, and Gretchen a wood nymph, had not Nature suddenly
changed her plans. What I admired in Phyllis was her imperfect
beauties. What I admired in Gretchen was her beautiful perfections.
And they were so alike and yet so different. Have you ever seen a body
of fresh water, ruffled by a sudden gust of wind, the cool blue-green
tint which follows? Then you have seen the color of Gretchen's eyes.
Have you ever seen ripe wheat in a sun-shower? Then you have seen the
color of Gretchen's hair. All in all, I was forced to admit that, from
an impartial and artistic view Gretchen the barmaid was far more
beautiful than Phyllis. From the standpoint of a lo