it.

"I see," she faltered, turning to leave the room; "it isn't
here--the book."

"There's something else of yours here," said Corliss.

"Is there?" She paused, hesitating at the door, looking at him
over her shoulder uncertainly.

"You dropped this rose." He lifted the rose from the waste-basket
and repeated the bow he had made at the front door. This time it
was not altogether wasted.

"I?"

"Yes. You lost it. It belongs to you."

"Yes--it does. How curious!" she said slowly. "How curious it
happened to be _there_!" She stepped to take it from him, her eyes
upon his in charming astonishment. "And how odd that----" She
stopped; then said quickly:

"How did you know it was _my_ rose?"

"Any one would know!"

Her expression of surprise was instantaneously merged in a flash
of honest pleasure and admiration, such as only an artist may feel
in the presence of a little masterpiece by a fellow-craftsman.