"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 mid-day 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 Hotel du Senat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the
concierge."
Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when
well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction
that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes
later he sat in his room in the Hotel du Senat repeating with an imbecile
smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"
An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat
and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently
lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile
and even a bit retrospective.
III
About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the
position of concierge at the Hotel du Senat held up her hands in amazement
to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.
She called Joseph, the intemperate garcon, who, while calculating the
value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge
as to their destination.
"_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!"
"You?" he suggested.
The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed
his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.
Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby
stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled
up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two
square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The
bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was
covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species
of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.
Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a
little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fete_
burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was
a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.
