_The Second Lady:_ "How very white it is! It seems not to have the least touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!" _The Florist:_ "It _iss_ gold-looging." _The Second Lady:_ "What do they use this rose for? For--for"-- _The Florist:_ "For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon dteas, dtinners, funerals"-- _The Second Lady:_ "Ah, that is shocking! I can't have it, then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost her only child--a young girl--and I wish it to be something expressive--characteristic--something that won't wound them with other associations. Have you nothing--nothing of that kind? I want something that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl, and yet--Haven't you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not this deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some kind of lily?" _The Florist:_ "Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas? Hyacinths? Marcuerites?" _The Second Lady:_ "No, no; they won't do, any of them! Haven't you any other kind of roses, that won't be so terribly--terribly"--She looks round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers. _The Florist:_ "Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel; Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine--these pink ones; they are sister rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks"-- _The Second Lady:_ "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to be a flower invented that would say something--pity, sympathy--that wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything? Some flowering vine?" _The Florist:_ "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"-- _The Second Lady_, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he trails on the counter before her: "Yes, that is very beautiful; and it is girlish, and like--But no, it wouldn't do! That perfume is heartbreaking! Don't send that!" _The Florist_, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?" _The Second Lady_, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering vine." _The Florist:_ "Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get you some of that other chasmin--kindt of push, that gifs its berfume after dtark"-- _The Second Lady:_ "At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale green flowers, that are not like flowers--no, they wouldn't do! I shall have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?" _The Florist:_ "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam." _The Second Lady_, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great many of them. Have you plenty?" _The Florist:_ "As many as you lige."