"What a stupid policeman!" exclaimed Rosalind, pouting. She pulled the bell, and glanced at Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at her. "Your troubles are nearly over," she said with a smile. "I am not impatient," owned Conrad. There were descending footsteps, and a woman opened the door. He said ingratiatingly, "I am sorry to disturb you, but we're trying to get some flowers. Can you let me have some?" "Flowers?" said the woman. She had a vacant stare. "A few bunches of violets," Rosalind explained. "Y-e-s," murmured the woman. She made a long pause. "We 'aven't got no flowers now," she said. "N--no. I'm sorry we can't oblige you." "Can you tell us where we can get some?" put in Miss Lascelles sharply. "No----no, I couldn't say, I'm sure," faltered the woman.... "There's Peters' opperzite--p'raps _they_ might be able to oblige you." "Do you know where there's a florist's?" questioned Conrad. "Florist's?" She shook her head. "N--no, I can't say as I do--not one as is likely to be open to-day." "Let's try Peters'!" they said; and scurried across the road. Here they pulled without effect; the bell yielded to them immoderately, but no tinkle came. They regarded one another, discouraged. "You had better leave us to our fate," sighed Rosalind. "Are you dismissing me?" His tone was reproachful. "Releasing you," she said, in her best St. James' manner. "My chains are flowers," said he ornately. "I wish you'd give 'em to me!" said Tattie Lascelles. "You shall have them before we part. Ladies, I have an inspiration! You know the way to the Parade--let's go down there and get a fly. Then we've nothing more to do--the responsibility's the flyman's. We'll take him by the hour, and make him drive us about Blithepoint till we find a florist's. Is it carried?" "Unanimously!" cried Rosalind. "Right about face, quick march!" And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. When the man had recovered from his astonishment at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, and developed ideas. He suggested "Mitchell's," and drove them to a fashionable florist's in the Mall. Nothing could have been happier. Mr. Mitchell accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as amiably as if bank-holidays were of no importance. Bountifully he brought forward his best for them, and his best was as beauteous as it was expensive. The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after the fog, and Rosalind among the azaleas was divine. (There are few keener pleasures than taking out a nice woman, and spending money on her; and it is unnecessary that one should go out fond of the woman--it's so easy to get fond of her in the process.) "Oh no, really!" she protested--and she meant it, for Miss Lascelles was already laden--"No, none for me, really!" "Just these," pleaded Conrad; "they're so pretty--it's a shame to leave them behind." He put them in her hands.