m in a minute. "He'd better not; he went too far to suit
me to-night."

"Why did he?" she asked quietly. "You were rather free towards
Dorothy."

"Dorothy is different; she's a--she's--well, she's a jolly good fellow,
but Rose--well, I like Rose, and every fellow better keep his hands off
her. I don't want a girl all the fellows can love; but I'm different.
Those things don't hurt a fellow; he's coarser and--well, it's expected
of him."

"But they do hurt you," she said. "The little book of memories that Rose
gave you this afternoon told a story of its own. I am going to tell you
this story."

He looked away into the distance, and she began.

* * * * *

"Once there was a man who went into a garden. All around him were
beautiful roses of all colours. But he chose a little white bud for his.
He chose it because it was pure and white, but most of all because it
was closed. No other person could see into its heart. While he was
waiting for it to unfold he walked around to enjoy the other flowers. He
studied their colouring and he breathed their perfume. For a long time
he enjoyed this; then he wanted to get nearer to these roses, to handle
them. Other travellers were handling them and they seemed to enjoy
themselves more than he did. So he touched one rather timidly; others he
was not so careful with. At last he grew tired and wandered back to his
own rosebud and lo! it had opened. It stood the whitest and most
fragrant rose in the garden, and its heart was the dewiest and most
tender. But he remembered the crimson roses and it seemed too white.
Then he could not detect its fragrance, for he had killed his sense of
smell by its abuse with the other roses, some of which stood as high and
beautiful as before, but others were left bruised and broken by his
ruthless desire to please, yes, to indulge himself. As he plucked his
own rose, he was aware of no sense of joy over it, except from pride,
for many travellers cast him envious glances. But he could not see its
unusual beauty; he could not get the fragrance from its heart, because
his sense of sight had been dulled by the brilliancy of the other
flowers and his sense of smell by their odour.

"Nor did he think of the little buds in the garden that he had touched
and then left. They would perhaps open, but the petals he had touched
would always be brown and torn. The passers-by might not see them when
the flowers had opened and revealed