no one has ever treated poor Miss Condit with such consistent consideration as Mr. Caliph. Perhaps she is morbid: this is probably the Diary of a Morbid Woman; but in such a matter as that she admires consistency. That little glance of Eunice comes back to me as I write; she is a pure, enchanting soul. Mrs. Ermine came in while she was in the library with Mr. Caliph, and immediately noticed the Boston roses, which effaced all the other flowers in the room.
"Were they sent from her seat?" she asked. Then, before I could answer, "I am going to have some people to dinner to-day; they would look very well in the middle."
"If you wish me to offer them to you, I really can't; I prize them too much."
"Oh, are they yours? Of course you prize them! I don't suppose you have many."
"These are the first I have ever received—from Mr. Caliph."
"From Mr. Caliph? Did he give them to you?"
Mrs. Ermine's intonations are not delicate. That "you" should be in enormous capitals.
"With his own hand—a quarter of an hour ago." This sounds triumphant, as I write it; but it was no great sensation to triumph over Mrs. Ermine.
She laid down the bouquet, looking almost thoughtful. "He does want to marry Eunice," she declared in a moment. This is the region in which, after a flight of fancy, she usually alights. I am sick of the
