And he stared into the flower-laden windows of Mr. Solomon. Orchids there were therein, yellow and mauve and speckled. Roses, little, tight autumn roses. Pink and white anemones, hyacinths and jonquils, white Dutch lilacs and fat chrysanthemums in white and bronze. And there were carnations--right in the middle of that pageant was a splash of purple carnations. “Carnations,” thought Major Cypress. “And, in particular, purple carnations. But that is not a proper way for an Englishman to win a wife. A little tender brutality is the way. But how to be tenderly brutal? Hell, I wish I was a Frenchman! A gardenia, on the other hand, may not come amiss. I will wear a gardenia. It will give me an air of high-minded depravity, which, they say, is attractive to young women.” Major Cypress entered within, and in due course was served with a gardenia. “For your button-hole, sir?” “I suppose so,” said Major Cypress. “But not so much vegetable matter with it, please. I want a gardenia, not a garden. Thank you.” “Thank you, sir. Nice morning, sir.” “I doubt it,” said Major Cypress. He wandered westwards, past the Berkeley. The commissionaire at the restaurant doors saluted him. Hugo liked that, and always rather sought it. Tarlyon was of opinion that the commissionaire probably mistook him for some one who had once tipped him, but Hugo said that that was not the point, while to be saluted by commissionaires on Piccadilly was a thing that happened only to very few people. IV At last, very thoughtfully, he came to the house in Audley Square. As he rang, a clock struck one and gave him an idea. “I will ask her to luncheon at Claridge’s,” he thought. “It will be a good opening.” Major Cypress waited in the drawing-room for quite a long time. He paced about. The floor was of parquet, mostly uncovered, and so his feet made a noise. He sat down. “You again!” cried Shirley. “How are you, Shirley?” “I refuse to tell you, Hugo. I am tired of telling you. Don’t I look well?” “Hum,” said Hugo. He could never answer questions like that. Shirley came near. She was in a sort of bronze dress of _crêpe marocain_, and her throat glowed very white. Her face Major Cypress did not actually look at, it tempted him so exceedingly. Shirley smiled. “I will tell you,” she smiled, “what you have come to do, Hugo. You have come to take me out to lunch.” “I do wish,” said Hugo, “that you would get out of that nasty habit of calling ‘luncheon’ lunch. Lunch sounds like a glass of milk and a digestive biscuit.” “Dear Hugo!” “Look here, Shirley, don’t ever say that again!” Shirley was very near, and her white hands were somehow like white flowers. But at her face he did not look. “Dea----” “Don’t!” he roared. Now Shirley was twenty and tall and straight and fair, and when she laughed you saw why servants were polite to her on sight. And oh, she was such a pretty girl! “Hugo,” she said, “you are going to propose to me again.” “Oh, am I?”