twelve cents. The chrysanthemums were probably fifty cents apiece. That would be all right.
She opened the door of the florist's shop and walked in.
"I want a chrysanthemum," she said. "One of the reddish ones. How much are they?"
"A dollar."
"All right."
She went out wearing pinned upon the collar of her cape a chrysanthemum. There was more condescension in her bearing now as she walked up Dyckman Street. Girls who passed her gazed admiringly at the flower. It made Lillian chuckle silently. Nobody in the world except herself knew that she only had the chrysanthemum because she hadn't the nerve to retrench when the florist had named its price.
She crossed Post Avenue and continued on her way. At Sherman she paused to look in a milliner's window. Cute hat. Lillian squinted her eyes and examined the stitching around the quill. Cheap-looking. Oh, there was the tag. Three ninety-eight. No wonder. You couldn't get a really good hat under five. Lillian resumed her stroll up Dyckman Street. At Vermilyea Avenue she turned. There was only one way to turn. Like Post Avenue, Vermilyea begins at Dyckman Street.
A few doors from the fire-house Lillian paused and fumbled in her purse for the key. There were children jumping rope directly in front of the entrance of her house. Lillian wondered how she could get through. She wouldn't ask them to move. Lillian was afraid of children. If they became vexed they sometimes shouted
