A knock sounded on the door, and when he opened it, the station agent
was there, with a long box in his hand.

"It's marked 'Rush,' so I thought I had better shoot it over to you,
Doc," he said.

"Thanks, old man," the Doctor said mechanically, and put the box down
on the table. On a white label, in bright red letters, stood out the
word 'Perishable.'

The word struck him like a blow between the eyes. "Perishable!" Then
here was something to which he might feel akin. He opened the box,
with detached interest. A sweet breath of roses proclaimed the
contents. He had forgotten about sending for them until now--Pearl's
roses for this day--nineteen American Beauties!

He carefully unpacked the wrapping, and held up the sheaf of
loveliness, and just for one moment had the thrill of joy that beauty
had always brought to him. Pearl's roses! The roses, with which he
had hoped to say what was in his heart--here they were, in all their
exquisite loveliness, and ready to carry the words of love and hope
and tenderness--but now ... he had nothing to say ... love and
marriage were not for him!

He sat down heavily, beside the table over which the roses lay
scattered, spilling their perfume in the room.

He fingered them lovingly, smoothing their velvety petals with a
tender hand, while his mind sought in vain to readjust itself to the
change the last two hours had brought.