"Why do you do that?" her companion broke the thread of his questioning
to ask.

The girl was tempted to tell some easy fib that the rose was faded, or
too fragrant; but somehow she could not. They both seemed so close to the
deep-down things of life at this moment that to speak the truth was the
one possible thing.

"I arranged to wear a white rose for Mr. Smith to recognize me. We--have
never seen each other," she confessed.

"Yet you say there's nothing interesting in your life!"

"It's true! _This_ thing was--was dreadful. It could happen only to a
girl whose life was not interesting."

"Now I understand why you put away the rose--for my sake, in case
Mr. Smith should turn up, after all. Will you give it to me? I won't
flaunt it in my buttonhole. I'll hide it sacredly, in memory of this
evening--and of you. Not that I shall need to be reminded of anything
which concerns this night--you especially, and your generosity, your
courage. But it may be that the men I spoke of won't find me here. If
they don't, the worst of your ordeal is over. It will only be to finish
dinner, and let me put you into a taxi. To-morrow you can think that you
dreamed the wretch who appealed to you, and be glad that you will never
see him again."

Annesley selected her white rose from its fellows, dried its stem
daintily with her napkin, and gave the flower to "Mr. Smith." Already it
looked refreshed, as she herself felt refreshed, after five years of