264 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



returned from the one Professor, her father, to the 

 other professor, Aytoun, her lover, having a slip of 

 paper pinned upon her dress, and upon that paper the 

 happy words, *With the author's compliments'? 

 When next the exhibitor sees his Roses, will there be 

 a prize-card on his box ? 



He wonders fretfully. He retires to his hotel. He 

 refreshes the outer and the inner man. What can be 

 the 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 man with the hay fever never leave 

 off sneezing? 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 equanimity quite 

 disgusting ; he looks up and is recognised as rival 



