"I gather from your speech that you, sir, are American, not English. You are the first American that ever I have met, and I do not seem well to understand the motives of all that you say, although I do understand perfectly the words. You ask do I want this rose. But of course I want it! Have I not asked for it? I want it because Chitta will be distressed if we lose it, but also I want it for myself, to whom it belongs, since it is a souvenir already dear to me." Her face was alight. Cartaret looked at it; then his glance fell. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm forever putting my foot in things." "You have trodden on my rose?" Her voice discovered her dismay. "No, no! I wouldn't--I couldn't. I meant that I was always making mistakes. This afternoon, for instance--And now----" To the rescue of his embarrassment came the thought that indeed he obviously could not tread on the rose, unless he were a contortionist, because the rose was---- Among the smudges of black, his cheeks burned a hot red. He thrust a hand between his shirt and waistcoat and produced the coveted flower: a snow-rose in the center of his grimy palm. Again the perfume, subtle, haunting. Again the pure mountain-peaks. Again the music of a poem in a tongue unknown.... At first he did not dare to look at her; he kept his gaze lowered. Had he looked, he would have seen her wide eyes startle, then change to amusement, and then to a doubting tenderness. He felt her delicate fingers touch his palm and he thrilled at the touch as she recaptured her rose. He did not see that, in welcome to the returned prodigal, she started to raise to her own lips those petals, gathered so tight against the flower's heart, which he had lately kissed. When at last he glanced up, she had recovered her poise and was again looking like some sculptured Artemis that had wandered into his lonely room from the gardens of the Luxembourg. Then he saw a much more prosaic thing. He saw the hand that held the rose and saw it discolored. "Will you ever forgive me?" he cried. "You've been leaning on my table, and I mix my paints on it!" The speech was not precisely pellucid, but she followed his eyes to the hand and understood. "The fault was mine," she said. Cartaret was searching among the tubes and bottles on the table. He searched so nervously that he knocked some of them to the floor. "If you'll just wait a minute." He found the bottle he wanted. "And if you don't mind the turpentine.... It smells terribly, but it will evaporate soon, and it cleans you up before you know it." He lifted one of the rags that lay about, and then another. He discarded both as much too soiled, hesitated, ran to the curtained corner and returned with a clean towel. She had hidden the flower. She extended her hand. "Do you mind?" he asked. "Do I object? No. You are kind."