So Terribly Unexpected
The Second Lady, throwing back her veil, and bending over to look at the box of roses: "What beautiful roses! What do you call these?"
The Florist: "That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost oudt. It is coing to be a very bopular rhoce."
The Second Lady: "How very white it is! It seems not to have the least touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!"
The Florist: "It
iss gold-looging."
The Second Lady: "What do they use this rose for? For--for"--
The Florist: "For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon dteas, dtinners, funerals"--
The Second Lady: "Ah, that is shocking! I can't have it, then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost her only child--a young girl--and I wish it to be something expressive--characteristic--something that won't wound them with other associations. Have you nothing--nothing of that kind? I want something that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl, and yet--Haven't you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not this deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some kind of lily?"
The Florist: "Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas? Hyacinths? Marcuerites?"
The Second Lady: "No, no; they won't do, any of them! Haven't you any other kind of roses, that won't be so terribly--terribly"--She looks round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.
The Florist: "Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel; Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine--these pink ones; they are sister rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks"--
The Second Lady: "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to be a flower invented that would say something--pity, sympathy--that wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything? Some flowering vine?"
The Florist: "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"--
The Second Lady, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he trails on the counter before her: "Yes, that is very beautiful; and it is girlish, and like--But no, it wouldn't do! That perfume is heartbreaking! Don't send that!"
The Florist, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?"
The Second Lady, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering vine."
The Florist: "Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get you some of that other chasmin--kindt of push, that gifs its berfume after dtark"--
The Second Lady: "At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale green flowers, that are not like flowers--no, they wouldn't do! I shall have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?"
The Florist: "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam."
The Second Lady, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great many of them. Have you plenty?"
The Florist: "As many as you lige."
The Second Lady: "Well, I don't want any of these hard little buds. I want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open, and fragile-looking--something like
her." The first lady starts. "Yes: like this--and this--and this. Be sure you get them all like these. And send them--I will give you the address." She writes on a piece of the paper before her. "There, that is it. Here is my card. I want it to go with them." She turns from the florist with a sigh, and presses her handkerchief to her eyes.
The Florist: "You want them to go rhighdt away?" He takes up the card, and looks at it absently, and then puts it down, and examines the roses one after another. "I don't know whether I cot enough of these oben ones on handt, already"--
The Second Lady: "Oh, you mustn't send them to-day! I forgot. It isn't to be till to-morrow. You must send them in the morning. But I am going out of town to-day, and so I came in to order them now. Be very careful not to send them to-day!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. I loog oudt."
The Second Lady: "I am so glad you happened to ask me. It has all been so dreadfully sudden, and I am quite bewildered. Let me think if there is anything more!" As she stands with her finger to her lip, the first lady makes a movement as if about to speak, but does not say anything. "No, there is nothing more, I believe."
The Florist, to the First Lady: "Was there somet'ing?"
The First Lady: "No. There is no hurry."
The Second Lady, turning towards her: "Oh, I beg your pardon! I have been keeping you"--
The First Lady: "Not at all. I merely returned to--But it isn't of the least consequence. Don't let me hurry you!"
The Second Lady: "Oh, I have quite finished, I believe. But I can hardly realize anything, and I was afraid of going away and forgetting something, for I am on my way to the station. My husband is very ill, and I am going South with him; and this has been so sudden, so terribly unexpected. The only daughter of a friend"--
The First Lady: "The only"--
The Second Lady: "Yes, it is too much! But perhaps you have come--I ought to have thought of it; you may have come on the same kind of sad errand yourself; you will know how to excuse"--
The First Lady, with a certain resentment: "Not at all! I was just ordering some flowers for a reception."
The Second Lady: "Oh! Then I beg your pardon! But there seems nothing else in the world but--death. I am very sorry. I beg your pardon!" She hastens out of the shop, and the first lady remains, looking a moment at the door after she has vanished. Then she goes slowly to the counter.
The Lady, severely: "Mr. Eichenlaub, I have changed my mind about the roses and the smilax. I will not have either. I want you to send me all of that jasmine vine that you can get. I will have my whole decorations of that. I wonder I didn't think of that before. Mr. Eichenlaub!" She hesitates. "Who was that lady?"
The Florist, looking about among the loose papers before him: "Why, I dton't know. I cot her cart here, somewhere."
The Lady, very nervously: "Never mind about the card! I don't wish to know who she was. I have no right to ask. No! I won't look at it." She refuses the card, which he has found, and which he offers to her. "I don't care for her name, but--Where was she sending the flowers?"
The Florist, tossing about the sheets of paper on the counter: "She dtidn't say, but she wrhote it down here, somewhere"--
The Lady, shrinking back: "No, no! I don't want to see it! But what right had she to ask me such a thing as that? It was very bad taste; very obtuse,--whoever she was. Have you--ah--found it?"
The Florist, offering her a paper across the counter: "Yes; here it iss."
The Lady, catching it from him, and then, after a glance at it, starting back with a shriek: "Ah-h-h! How terrible! But it can't be! Oh, I don't know what to think--It is the most dreadful thing that ever--It's impossible!" She glances at the paper again, and breaks into a hysterical laugh: "Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why, this is the address that I wrote out for that young gentleman's flowers! You have made a terrible mistake, Mr. Eichenlaub--you have almost killed me. I thought--I thought that woman was sending her funeral flowers to--to"--She holds her hand over her heart, and sinks into the chair beside the counter, where she lets fall the paper. "You have almost killed me."
The Florist: "I am very sorry. I dtidn't subbose--But the oder attress must be here. I will fint it"--He begins tossing the papers about again.
The Lady, springing to her feet: "No, no! I wouldn't look at it now for the world! I have had one escape. Send me all jasmine, remember."
The Florist: "Yes, all chasmin." The lady goes slowly and absently toward the door, where she stops, and then she turns and goes back slowly, and as if forcing herself.
The Lady: "Mr. Eichenlaub."
The Florist: "Yes, matam."
The Lady: "Have you--plenty--of those white--Bride roses?"
The Florist: "I get all you want of them."
The Lady: "Open, fragile-looking ones, with long, slender stems?"
The Florist: "I get you any kindt you lige!"
The Lady: "Send me Bride roses, then. I don't care! I will not be frightened out of them! It is too foolish."
The Florist: "All rhighdt. How many you think you want?"
The Lady: "Send all you like! Masses of them! Heaps!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. And the chasmin?"
The Lady: "No; I don't want it now."
The Florist: "You want the smilax with them, then, I subbose?"
The Lady: "No, I don't want any smilax with them, either. Nothing but those white Bride roses!" She turns and goes to the door; she calls back, "Nothing but the roses, remember!"
The Florist: "All rhighdt. I don't forget. No chasmin; no smilax; no kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces."
The Lady: "Only roses."