ould celebrate the evening in
their own fashion; but not till eight o'clock. When he had picked out
at a confectioner's, a TORTE for the Fursts, he did not know how to
kill time. He was in an unsettled mood, and the atmosphere of
excitement, which had penetrated the familiar details of life, jarred
on him. It seemed absurdly childish, the way in which even the grown-up
part of the population surrendered itself to the sentimental pleasures
of the season. But foreigners were only big children; or, at least,
they could lay aside age and dignity at will. He felt misanthropic, and
went for a long walk; and when he had passed the last tree-market,
where poor buyers were bargaining for the poor trees that were left, he
met only isolated stragglers. In some houses, the trees were already
lighted.

On his return, he went to a flower-shop in the KONIGSPLATZ, and chose
an azalea to take to Miss Jensen. While he was waiting for the pot to
be swathed in crimped paper, his eye was caught by a large bunch of red
and yellow roses, which stood in a vase at the back of the counter. He
regarded them for a moment, without conscious thought; then, suddenly
colouring, he stretched out his hand.

"I'll take those roses, too. What do they cost?"

The girl who served him--a very pretty girl, with plaits of
straw-coloured hair, wound Madonna-like round her head--named a sum
that seemed exorbitant to his inexperience, and told a wordy story of
how they had been ordered, and then countermanded at the last moment.

"A pity. Such fine flowers!"

Her interest was awakened in the rather shabby young man who paid the
price without flinching; and she threw inquisitive looks at him as she
wrapped the roses in tissue-paper.

A moment later, Maurice was in the street with the flowers in his hand.
He had acted so spontaneously that he now believed his mind to have
been made up before he entered the shop; no, more, as if all that had
happened during the past week had led straight up to his impulsive
action. Or was it only that, at the sight of the flowers, a kind of
refrain had begun to run through his head: she loves roses, loves roses?

But he did not give himself time for reflection; he hurried through the
cold night air, sheltering the flowers under his coat. Soon he was once
more in the BRUDERSTRASSE, on the stair, every step of which, though he
had only climbed it some three or four times, he seemed to know by
heart. As, however, he waited for