“These tulips are magnificent!”
“They are!” cried Selby warmly.
“But alas, they are dear.”
“I will take them.”
“Dieu !” murmured the gardener in a perspiration, “ he’s madder than most Englishmen.”
“This cactus———”
“Is gorgeous !”
“Alas———”
“Send it with the rest.”
The gardener braced himself against the river wall.
“That splendid rose-bush,” he began faintly.
“That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs———” He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held the gardener with his eye, and bullied him.
“I’ll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?”
“Mademoiselle is not wealthy.”
“How do you know?”
“Dame, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive.”
“Those are the pansies she bought?”
“These Monsieur, the blue and gold.”
“Then you intend to send them to her?”
“At midday after the market.”
“Take this rose-bush with them, and”—here he glared at the gardener, “don’t you dare say from whom they came.” The gardener’s eyes were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: “Send the others to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the concierge.”
Then he buttoned his glove with much dig-
