“And what about dinner?” asked the maid. “What time will you have it to-night? Or are you doing to dine on scents?” M. Loigny’s voice, imperious and angry, was heard through the room. “I tell you, girl, that I despise your dinner! Let us get on!” The interrupted litany began again calmly. “Madame Olga Marix, you are of medium height and the white of your robe is almost the color of living flesh. Countess of Murinais, I love you above all for your delicate pallor, for your foam-like, fragile beauty. Your grace is not of the lasting kind. You have not the charming precocity of Madame Sancy de Parabère, nor her amiable opulence, nor the lovely brightness of her vivid pink, but you are a type of discreet elegance and distinction.” Now at last Jean could contain himself no longer, and at the risk of breaking the spell he bent forward to look at the favorite. He saw M. Loigny with pruning shears in one hand, while in the other hand he lifted the perfect flower, the white rose which he loved and praised the most. Kneeling on the floor, Fanchette was grouping the countless stalks which her master threw to her after gazing at them fondly, classing them by their families, and calling them by their names. The armchairs, the table, the carpet, all the country drawing-room was hidden under the roses. It seemed as though they had fallen from the ceiling in a scented rain, an odorous avalanche. And through the open bay window the young man saw in the dining-room huge bouquets standing in a row, with dashes of red-purple in them that looked like wounds. These strangely decorated rooms were the death-chamber of the revived garden. “There are only three or four princesses left,” said the rose-lover, somewhat regretfully, to calm his angry servant. And quickly he went over them. “Princess Beatrice, tall and nonchalant, in bright pink; Princess Marie, whose pink is like the cheek of a shy maiden; Princess Louise, who may be compared to some fresh face with its brilliant coloring toned down by a clumsy powderpuff.” “Why has he ruined his garden?” Jean uneasily asked himself. Through the windows he looked out into the night, and fancied he could hear in the wind which idly stirred the branches, the plaint of the mutilated rose-bushes. At last M. Loigny noticed his nephew and his face assumed at once an expression of contrition and timidity. “Here is every one of my roses,” was all that he said. The young man was thinking: “He is not even interested in my engagement.” But happiness made him tolerant and he even wished to flatter his uncle’s innocent whim. “Why did you gather them this evening?” he asked. The agitated old man pursued the line of his own thoughts. “Not one was spared, and my whole garden is there. The finest have women’s names, but the Chinese gardeners show the most poetical imaginations in naming the many colored beauties of the earth.”