other kind of roses, that won't be so terribly--terribly"--She looks
round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.

_The Florist:_ "Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel;
Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine--these pink ones; they are sister
rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks"--

_The Second Lady:_ "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to
be a flower invented that would say something--pity, sympathy--that
wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything? Some flowering
vine?"

_The Florist:_ "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with
that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"--

_The Second Lady_, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he
trails on the counter before her: "Yes, that is very beautiful; and it
is girlish, and like--But no, it wouldn't do! That perfume is
heartbreaking! Don't send that!"

_The Florist_, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?"

_The Second Lady_, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering
vine."

_The Florist:_ "Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get
you some of that other chasmin--kindt of push, that gifs its berfume
after dtark"--

_The Second Lady:_ "At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale
green flowers, that are not like flowers--no, they wouldn't do! I shall
have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?"

_The Florist:_ "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam."

_The Second Lady_, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great
many of them. Have you plenty?"

_The Florist:_ "As many as you lige."

_The Second Lady:_ "Well, I don't want any of these hard little buds. I
want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open, and
fragile-looking--something like _her_." The first lady starts. "Yes:
like this--and this--and this. Be sure you get them all like these. And
send them--I will give you the address." She writes on a piece of the
paper before her. "There, that is it. Here is my card. I want it to go
with them." She turns from the florist with a sigh, and presses her
handkerchief to her eyes.

_The Florist:_ "You want them to go rhighdt away?" He takes up the card,
and looks at it absently, and then puts it down, and examines the roses
one after another. "I don't know whether I cot enough of these oben ones
on handt, already"--

_The Second Lady:_ "Oh, you mustn't send them to-day! I forgot. It
isn't to be till to-morrow.