He took down from its nail one of the little wooden slabs, and showed her the roots coiled about it, with the cluster of bulbs. The flower was snow-white and shaped like a butterfly. The fringe of the lip was of a delicate rose-pink, and at the base of it were two spots of rich maroon, each with a central spot of the most vivid orange. Every color was as pronounced as though it were the only one. "What a daring combination!" she cried. "If a lady should dress in all those colors she'd be thought vulgar, but somehow it doesn't seem vulgar in a flower." She turned the blossom over and looked at the under side of the petals. "Those orange spots show right through the leaf," she went on, "as if they were painted and the paint laid on thick." "Do you know," said Putnam, "that what you've just said gives me a good deal of encouragement?" "Encouragement? How?" "Well, it's the first really feminine thing--At least--no, I don't mean that. But it makes me think that you are more like other girls." His explanation was interrupted by the entrance of the gardener. "Will you select some of those orchids, please--if you like them, that is?" asked Putnam. A shade passed over her face. "They are too gay for his--for Henry," she answered. "Try to tolerate a little brightness to-day," he pleaded in a low voice. "You must dedicate this morning to me: it's the last, you know." "I will take a few of them if you wish it, but not this one. I will take that little white one and that large purple one." The gardener reached down the varieties which she pointed out, and they passed along the alley to select other flowers. She chose a number of white roses, dark-shaded fuchsias and English violets, and then they left the place. Her expression had grown thoughtful, though not precisely sad. They walked slowly up the long shady street leading to the cemetery. "I am dropping some of the flowers," she said, stopping: "will you carry these double fuchsias a minute, please, while I fasten the others?" He took them and laughed. "Now, if this were in a novel," he said, "what a neat opportunity for me to say, 'May I not _always_ carry your double fuchsias?'" She looked at him quickly, and her brown cheek blushed rosy red, but she started on without making any reply and walked faster. "She takes," he said to himself. But he saw the cemetery-gate at the end of the street. "I must make this walk last longer," he thought. Accordingly, he invented several cunning devices to prolong it, stopping now and then to point out something worth noting in the handsome grounds which lined the street. And so they sauntered along, she appearing to have forgotten the speech which had embarrassed her, or at least she did not resent it. They paused in front of a well-kept lawn, and he drew her attention to the turf. "It's almost as dark as the evergreens," he said. "Yes," she answered, "it's so green that it's almost blue."