"I am aware," said M. de Chauxville, "that the rose has thorns. One
reason why the violet is hors de concours."

Etta smiled--almost relenting. She was never quite safe against her own
vanity. Happy the woman who is, and rare.

"I suspect that the violet is innocent of any desire to enter into
competition," said Etta.

"Knowing," suggested De Chauxville, "that although the race is not
always to the swift, it is usually so. Please do not stand. It suggests
that you are waiting for me to go or for some one else to come."

"Neither."

"Then prove it by taking this chair. Thus. Near the fire, for it is
quite an English spring. A footstool. Is it permitted to admire your
slippers--what there is of them? Now you look comfortable."

He attended to her wants, divined them, and perhaps created them with a
perfect grace and much too intimate a knowledge. As a carpet knight he
was faultless. And Etta thought of Paul, who could do none of these
things--or would do none of them--Paul, who never made her feel like a
doll.

"Will you not sit down?" she said, indicating a chair, which he did not
take. He selected one nearer to her.

"I can think of nothing more desirable."