William Dean Howells

“ 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 [Pg 14] 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. ”

“ He nods his head toward the frosty panes, and wraps a sheet of tissue-paper around the cotton and the flowers.
The Lady: "But you are not near the windows. Back here it is midsummer!"
The Florist: "Yes, we got a rhevricherator to keep the rhoces from sunstroke." He crimps the paper at the top, and twists it at the bottom of the bundle in his hand. "Hier!" he calls to a young man warming his hands at the stove. "Chon, but on your hat, and dtake this to—Holt on! I forgot to but in the cart." He undoes the paper, and puts in a card lying on the counter before him; the lady watches him vaguely. ”

“ The Young Man, dreamily regarding the roses: "They look rather chilly." He goes to the stove, and drawing off his gloves, warms his hands, and then comes back. "What do you call this rose?"
The Florist: "The Pridte."
The Young Man, uncertainly: "Oh!" The lady moves a little way up the counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time to [Pg 18] time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. "Haven't you any white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge, the merest touch."
The Florist: "No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow; dtea-rhoces ”

“ The Florist, indicating the different kinds in the vases, where the lady has been looking at them: "Well, there is nothing lighder than the Matame Cousine, or the Matame Watterville, here; they are sister rhoces"—
The Young Man: "Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark." He stops before the Madame Hoste: "What a [Pg 19] strange flower! It is almost black! What is it for? Funerals?"
The Florist: "No; a good many people lige them. ”

“ The Florist: "Your flowers?"
The Lady: "Oh, yes, my flowers. I nearly went away without deciding. Let me see. Where are those white roses with the pink tinge on the edge of the petals?" The florist pushes the box towards her, and she looks down at the roses. "No, they won't do. They [Pg 30] look somehow—cruel! I don't wonder he wouldn't have them. They are totally out of character. I will take those white Bride roses, too. ”

“ I don't like [Pg 13] 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?" ”

“ She turns and goes to the door; she calls back, "Nothing but the roses, remember!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. I don't [Pg 47] forget. No chasmin; no smilax; no kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces."
The Lady: "Only roses."
The Florist, alone, thoughtfully turning over the papers on his counter: "That is sdrainche that I mage that mistake about the attress! I can't find the oder one anwhere; and if I lost it, what am I coing to do with the rhoces the other lady ortert?" He steps back and looks at his feet, and then stoops and picks up a paper, which he examines. "Ach! here it iss! ”

“ You must often lose a good deal."
The Florist: "It gomes out about rhighdt, nearly always. When I get left, sometimes, I can chenerally work dem off on funerals. Now, that bic orter hat I just fill, that wass a funeral. It [Pg 8] usedt up all the flowers I hat ofer from yesterday."
The Lady: "Don't speak of it! And the flowers, are they just the same for funerals?"
The Florist: "Yes, rhoces nearly always. Whidte ones."
The Lady: "Well, it is too dreadful. I am not going to have roses, whatever I have." After a thoughtful pause, and a more careful look around the shop: "Mr. ”

“ And do they use Bride roses for"—
The Florist: "Yes; and for weddtings, too; for everything." The lady leans back a little and surveys the flowers critically. A young man enters, and approaches the florist, but waits with respectful impatience for the lady to transact her affairs. The florist turns to him inquiringly, and upon this hint he speaks. ”