eling somehow a sort of diffidence such as he had never felt
before when giving flowers to women, and took them with him.

It was crisp afternoon and as he reached the square a small hand waved
to him and he saw her walking briskly along by the arch, so he ordered
the car stopped, and jumped out.

"I was just coming over for you," he said. "It would have been a
disaster to have missed you. Barola is giving a violin recital at
Carnegie Hall. Shall we run up? There's just time."

"You weren't going to miss me," she laughed. "I had no intention of
letting you, but the afternoon was too utterly delectable to stay
indoors, so I waylaid you here." Then after a moment, as she stepped
lightly through the car door which he had opened, she added delightedly,
"Barola! And I was just crying for some music. Did you hear my wails
from the Flatiron building down?"

"I was too busy crying to see you," he laughed back. "My agonized sobs
drowned the traffic whistles."

As the car turned, he held out the box, which proclaimed its contents,
as violet boxes always do. A man may have a bottle of rum or a chest of
stolen gold wrapped up so it looks as innocent as a pair of socks, but
no swain bearing violets can deceive the eye of the most casual
observer. Marcia was not deceived.

"Violets!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean they are for me?"

"Of course," he answered, and, for no reason at all, colored like a
schoolboy.

Marcia opened the box and sat gazing at the flowers.

Into her face came a sudden gravity and the delicate features seemed
almost sad. She said, "Thank you," in a low voice and continued to gaze
at her gift. Then she buried her face in their fragrance and for a
moment held it there. When she raised it to him again it was smiling,
though still gravely.

"They are lovely," she told him. "I'm glad you thought of them."

"You seemed almost sad," Paul spoke with a voice of deep solicitude.
"Did I make a mistake? Do violets stand for something you don't want to
be reminded of?"

She shook her head and laughed, and this time with the old note of
merriment.

"Violets stand for everything that's nice," she assured him. "It was
just that--I hardly know--just that it suddenly occurred to me how long
a time it's been since anyone gave me flowers."

"Someone is going to--often," the words came quickly, and impulsively he
laid his hand over hers for just a moment.

"Do you know, I have the instincts of a sybarite?" she infor