He carried her parcels for her, and once, when rain threatened, her
umbrella. He had never heard of the custom of sending flowers to one's
lady-love, so he sent Genevieve fruit instead. There was utility in
fruit. It was good to eat. Flowers never entered his mind, until, one
day, he noticed a pale rose in her hair. It drew his gaze again and
again. It was _her_ hair, therefore the presence of the flower
interested him. Again, it interested him because _she_ had chosen to put
it there. For these reasons he was led to observe the rose more closely.
He discovered that the effect in itself was beautiful, and it fascinated
him. His ingenuous delight in it was a delight to her, and a new and
mutual love-thrill was theirs--because of a flower. Straightway he
became a lover of flowers. Also, he became an inventor in gallantry. He
sent her a bunch of violets. The idea was his own. He had never heard
of a man sending flowers to a woman. Flowers were used for decorative
purposes, also for funerals. He sent Genevieve flowers nearly every day,
and so far as he was concerned the idea was original, as positive an
invention as ever arose in the mind of man.
He was tremulous in his devotion to her--as tremulous as was she in her
reception of him. She was all that was pure and good, a holy of holies
not lightly to be profaned even by what might possibly be the too ardent
reverence of a devotee.
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