282 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



matter with the coffee-room clock ? how slowly it ticks ! 

 how the long hand lags and limps ! every minute marked 

 upon the dial might be a pebble upon the grass-plat of the 

 future, blunting the scythe of Time. Will that selfish snob 

 in the corner never put down the newspaper ? He will, he 

 does : the exhibitor seizes it eagerly, and reads it, or rather 

 gazes vacantly upon it for nearly a minute and a half. 

 What are money-markets or murders to him ? Sixteen 

 closely-printed pages, and not one word about Roses ! He 

 throws down the Times and looks out of the window. Ah, 

 there is a shop opposite with pictures and photographs ; 

 strolls across ; has seen them all before ; is getting rather 

 sick of photographs ; strolls back again ; must have been 

 away ten minutes, but coffee-room clock says three. Selfish 

 snob in corner writing letters with a coolness and equani- 

 mity quite disgusting; he looks up and is recognised as 

 rival amateur, proprietor of Pierre Notting ; something 

 about him, exhibitor thinks, not altogether pleasing ; not a 

 nice expression ; shouldn't say he was quite a gentleman. 



At last the malignant timepiece, having tardily an- 

 nounced the meridian, with a minim - rest between the 

 notes, as though it were a passing bell tolled in Lilliput, 

 and having disputed every inch of the succeeding hour, is 



