In the secluded garden corner she suffered all the agonies of a
pretty woman in the great world, who is only a pretty woman, and
no more. It needs so VERY much more to be "somebody." To be
somebody was what Rosa Damascena sighed for, from rosy dawn to
rosier sunset.

From her wall she could see across the green lawns, the great
parterre which spread before the house terrace, and all the great
roses that bloomed there,--Her Majesty Gloire de Dijon, who was a
reigning sovereign born, the royally born Niphetos, the Princesse
Adelaide, the Comtesse Ouvaroff, the Vicomtesse de Cazes all in
gold, Madame de Sombreuil in snowy white, the beautiful Louise de
Savoie, the exquisite Duchess of Devoniensis,--all the roses that
were great ladies in their own right, and as far off her as were
the stars that hung in heaven. Rosa Damascena would have given all
her brilliant carnation hues to be pale and yellow like the
Princesse Adelaide, or delicately colorless like Her Grace of
Devoniensis.

She tried all she could to lose her own warm blushes, and prayed
that bees might sting her and so change her hues; but the bees
were of low taste, and kept their pearl-powder and rouge and other
pigments for the use of common flowers, like the evening primrose
or the butter-cup and borage, and never came near to do her any
good in arts of toilet.

One day the gardener approached and stood and looked at her: then
all at once she felt a sharp stab in her from his knife, and a
vivid pain ran downward through her stem.