"What was it?"

"American, unfortunately; it was a Noisette; the variety, I
think, that they call 'Conque de Vénus.' "

"My dear little Fleda, you're too wise for anything!" said
Constance, with a rather significant arching of her eye-brows.
"You mustn't expect other people to be as rural in their
acquirements as yourself. I don't pretend to know any rose by
sight but the Queechy," she said, with a change of expression,
meant to cover the former one.

Fleda's face, however, did not call for any apology. It was
perfectly quiet.

"But what has become of him?" said Constance, with her comic
impatience. "My dear Fleda! if my eyes cannot rest upon that
development of elegance, the parterre is become a wilderness
to me!"

"Hush, Constance!" Fleda whispered earnestly — "you are not
safe — he may be near you."

"Safe!" ejaculated Constance; but a half backward hasty glance
of her eye brought home so strong an impression that the
person in question was seated a little behind her, that she
dared not venture another look, and became straightway
extremely well-behave.