Mr. Lynn stopped short upon the pavement and looked at his companion in
amazement. The latter had the air of one very little interested in the
subject of conversation. He was watching approvingly a barrowful of
lilac and other spring flowers being wheeled along by a flower-seller in
the middle of the road.

"What an exquisite perfume!" the young man murmured, enthusiastically.
"Doesn't it remind you, Mr. Lynn, of a beautiful garden somewhere right
away in the country--one of those old-fashioned gardens, you know, with
narrow paths where you have to push your way through the flowers, and
where there are always great beds of pink and white stocks near the box
edges? And do you notice--an accident, of course--but what a delicate
blend of color the lilac and those yellow jonquils make!"

"I can't smell anything," the American declared, a little impatiently,
"and I don't know as I want to just now. I am here to talk business, if
you don't mind."

"In one moment," Burton replied. "Excuse me for one moment, if you
please."

He hastened across the street and returned a moment or two later with a
bunch of violets in his hand. Mr. Lynn watched him, partly in
amazement, partly in disapproval. There seemed to be very little left
of the smart, businesslike young man whose methods, only a short time
ago, had commanded his unwilling admiration. Mr. Alfred Burton's
expression had undergone a complete change. His eyes had lost their
calculating twinkle, his mouth had softened. A pleasant but somewhat
abstracted smile had taken the place of his forced amiability.