"Well, then what was the riddle? Was she in love with Roy Green yet, was she But playing with me, was I crude, left handed, Had she changed over, was she trying me To fasten in the hook of matrimony, Or was she good, and all this corner talk Of Roy Green just the dirt of dirty minds? You know the speculations, and you know How they befuddle one at twenty years. And sometimes I would grieve for what I did; Then harden and laugh down my softness. But At last I wrote a note to Elenor Murray And sent it with a bouquet--but no word Came back from Elenor Murray. Then I thought: Here is a girl who rides with that Roy Green And what would he be with her for, I ask? And if she wants to make a cause of war Out of an attitude she half provoked, Why let her--and moreover let her go. And so I dropped the matter, since she dropped My friendship from that night." "But later on, Two years ago, when she came back to town From somewhere, I don't know, gone many months, Grown prettier, more desirable, I sent Some roses to her in a tender mood As if to say: We're grown up since that night, Have you forgotten it, as I remember How womanly you were, have grown to be? She wrote me just a little note of thanks, And what is strange that very day I learned About your interest in her, learned besides It prospered for some months before. I turned My heart away for good, as a man might Who plunges and beholds the woman smile And take another's arm and walk away." "So, that's your story, is it?" said Carl Eaton. "Well, I had married her except for you! That bunch of roses spoiled the girl for me. You had Roy Green, dog-fennel, I had roses, And I am glad you sent them, otherwise I might have married her, to find at last A wife just like her mother is, myself Living her father's life, for something missed Or hated in me--not the want of money. She liked me as the banker's son, be sure, And let me go unwillingly."