on't you
please write it down for me?" The florist writes on a sheet of
wrapping-paper, and she leans over and reads: "Oh! _Meteor!_ Well, it is
very striking--a little _too_ striking. I don't like such a vivid pink,
and I don't like the name. Horrid to give such a name to a flower." She
puts both hands into her muff, and drifts a little way off, as if to get
him in a better perspective. "Can't you suggest something, Mr.
Eichenlaub?"

_The Florist:_ "Some kind off yellow rhoce? Dtea-rhoces?"

_The Lady,_ shaking her head: "Tea-roses are ghastly. I hate yellow
roses. I would rather have black, and black is simply impossible. I
shall have to tell you just what I want to do. I don't want to work up
to my rooms with the flowers; I want to work up to the young lady who is
going to pour tea for me. I don't care if there isn't a flower anywhere
but on the table before her. I want a color scheme that shall not have
a false note in it, from her face to the tiniest bud. I want them to all
_come together_. Do you understand?"

_The Florist_, doubtfully: "Yes." After a moment: "What kindt looking
yo'ng laty iss she?"

_The Lady:_ "The most ethereal creature in the world."

_The Florist:_ "Yes; but what sdyle--fair or tark?"

_The Lady:_ "Oh, fair! Very, very fair, and very, very fragile-looking;
a sort of moonlight blonde, with those remote, starry-looking eyes,
don't you know, and that pale saffron hair; not the least ashen; and
just the faintest, faintest tinge of color in her face. I suppose you
have nothing like the old-fashioned blush-rose? That would be the very
thing."

_The Florist_, shaking his head: "Oh, no; there noding like that in a
chreen-house rhoce."

_The Lady:_ "Well, that is exactly what I want. It ought to be something
very tall and ethereal; something very, very pale, and yet with a sort
of suffusion of color." She walks up and down the shop, looking at all
the plants and flowers.

_The Florist_, waiting patiently: "Somet'ing beside rhoces, then?"

_The Lady_, coming back to him: "No; it must be roses, after all. I see
that nothing else will do. What do you call those?" She nods at a vase
of roses on a shelf behind him.

_The Florist_, turning and taking them down for her: "Ah, those whidte
ones! That is the Pridte. You sait you woultn't haf whidte ones."

_The Lady:_ "I may have to come to them. Why do they call it the Pride?"

_The Florist:_ "I didn't say Bridte; I said Pridte."

_The Lady:_