"Oh! Your orchids." She stopped suddenly, as though confused. "You won't be angry? I know you won't when I tell you about it! I gave them away." He took his seat, rubbed the back of one hand with long soft fingers, and slowly raised his mocking glance to hers. "Ah--you gave them away?" "Yes! and you'll quite approve," she said, meeting his inquisitorial scrutiny without confusion. "I'll tell you just how it was. I have a protégée, an old woman who sells newspapers under the elevated station--such an old woman! If I were rich I'd send her off to a farm and make her happy for the rest of her life! The first day I came to New York I hadn't any money. I didn't know what to do! I sold newspapers!" "You?" "Yes! You didn't hear? Oh, it made quite a fuss at the time! The newspapers had it, 'Mysterious Society Woman Sells Papers.' And I made a lot of money--no change, naturally! Too bad I didn't know you then; you would have paid at least a dollar a paper!" She laughed gaily, a little excited at the recollection. "It was quite romantic! Well, my old woman gave me the idea. She's been my mascot ever since. Every day I get my papers from her. Last night, coming back after a spin, I stopped as usual. I had the orchids here at my waist; I noticed her eying them. "'What are you looking at? These?' I asked. "She bobbed her head. She has only five teeth--the funniest teeth! You ought to see them; none of them meet. "'At these flowers?' "She bobbed again. "'You like flowers?' "Then she came up close to me--the way old people do, you know--and said in my ear: "'When I was your age, my darling, I had flowers, like those, every day!' "And she drew back, nodding and bobbing, smiling her toothless smile." Doré stopped, pressed her hand to her throat and said in a muffled voice: "It just took me. Something came right up in my throat--I could have cried! I tore them off and threw them in her arms. If you could have seen the look she gave me! She kissed them. Ah! it made me very happy, I can tell you!" Did he believe her? He didn't care! Perhaps he preferred that it should have been invented. "It will mean a _great_ deal to her," he said, his eyes on hers--his eyes, that began to light up as lanterns showing through the fall of night. "It will mean a great deal!" she said, with an expression of such beatitude that his abiding doubt began to waver. "I just couldn't have kept them!" "I want you to lunch with me--to-morrow," he said slowly. "Where?" "In my apartments. They overlook the park. It's quite delightful." He watched her eagerly, for eagerness could occasionally show on his face, as a sudden joy may recall a past youth to the face of a mature woman. She considered thoughtfully: "To-morrow? At what time?" "At one," he said; and she noticed again the curious gesture of his feminine fingers sliding caressingly over the back of his hand. "One's all right. I'll be delighted to meet Mrs. Sassoon."