But,
to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. Under
a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge
to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among
the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring had
come,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spread
freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,
and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating
among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad in
tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted
their winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth
in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and
swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a
window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky. Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in the
song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that
dangerous sweetness in the air of May. At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcely
conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he
thought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barrée. The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of
pansies." Rue Barrée shook her head. The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had
bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never
argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler toward
a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazed
about him. "These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" He
fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets. "That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled
parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticed
it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it,
and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. Still, to do him
justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for
after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming. "Fifty francs, Mademoiselle." The gardener's tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted. They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize his
prize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it. "I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a worn
purse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting the
light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a
vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had
cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much
embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with
a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations
for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a
policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked
at him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barrée had been gone some time. "What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?" Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardener
was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such
satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of
opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the
calling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice. "These tulips are magnificent!" "They are!" cried Selby warmly. "But alas, they are dear." "I will take them." "Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most
Englishmen." "This cactus--"

"Is gorgeous!" "Alas--"

"Send it with the rest." The gardener braced himself against the river wall. "That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly. "That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs--"

He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden
cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held
the gardener with his eye, and bullied him. "I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?" "Mademoiselle is not wealthy." "How do you know?" "_Dame_, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive." "Those are the pansies she bought?" "These, Monsieur, the blue and gold." "Then you intend to send them to her?" "At mid-day after the market." "Take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at the
gardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyes
were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the others
to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the
concierge." Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when
well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction
that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes
later he sat in his room in the Hôtel du Sénat repeating with an imbecile
smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!" An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat
and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently
lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile
and even a bit retrospective. III

About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the
position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in amazement
to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway. She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while calculating the
value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge
as to their destination. "_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!" "You?" he suggested. The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed
his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display. Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby
stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled
up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two
square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The
bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was
covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species
of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other. Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a
little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fête_
burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was
a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus. "Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford. "N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked
enthusiasm. "I should imagine so."