do. They are
fantastic things, anyway, and they are not very effective, as you say.
Pinks, anemones, marguerites, narcissus--there doesn't seem to be any
great variety, does there?"

_The Florist_, patiently: "There will be more, lader on."

_The Lady:_ "Yes, there will be more sun, later on. But now, Mr.
Eichenlaub, what do you think of plants in pots, set around?"

_The Florist:_ "Balmss?"

_The Lady_, vaguely: "Yes, palms."

_The Florist:_ "Balmss would to. But there would not be very much
golor."

_The Lady:_ "That is true; there would be no color at all, and my rooms
certainly need all the color I can get into them. Yes, I shall have to
have roses, after all. But not white ones!"

_The Florist:_ "Chacks?"

_The Lady:_ "No; Jacks are too old-fashioned. But haven't you got any
other very dark rose? I should like something almost black, I believe."

_The Florist,_ setting a vase of roses on the counter before her: "There
is the Matame Hoste."

_The Lady,_ bending over the roses, and touching one of them with the
tip of her gloved finger: "Why, they _are_ black, almost! They are
nearly as black as black pansies. They are really wonderful!" She stoops
over and inhales their fragrance. "Delicious! They are beautiful,
but"--abruptly--"they are hideous. Their color makes me creep. It is so
unnatural for a rose. A rose--a rose ought to be--rose-colored! Have you
no rose-colored roses? What are those light pink ones there in the
window?"

_The Florist_, going to the window and getting two vases of cut roses,
with long stems, both pink, but one kind a little larger than the other:
"That is the Matame Watterville, and this is the Matame Cousine. They
are sister rhoces; both the same, but the Matame Watterville is a little
bigger, and it is a little dtearer."

_The Lady:_ "They are both exquisite, and they are such a tender
almond-bloom pink! I think the Madame Cousine is quite as nice; but of
course the larger ones are more effective." She examines them, turning
her head from side to side, and then withdrawing a step, with a decisive
sigh. "No; they are too pale. Have you nothing of a brighter pink? What
is that over there?" She points to a vase of roses quite at the front of
the window, and the florist climbs over the mass of plants and gets it
for her.

_The Florist:_ "That is the Midio."

_The Lady:_ "The what?"

_The Florist:_ "The Midio."

_The Lady:_ "You will think I am very stupid this morning. W