That afternoon I devoted to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, and
a most delightful occupation I found it. It was no florist's
bouquet, composed of only a few kinds of flowers, wired upon
sticks, and arranged according to geometric pattern. I used many a
rare flower, too shy of bloom to recommend itself to florists; I
combined tints almost as numerous as the flowers were, and
perfumes to which city bouquets are utter strangers. Arranging
flowers is a favorite pastime of mine, but upon this particular
occasion I enjoyed my work more than I had ever done before. Not
that I was in love with Miss Mayton; a man may honestly and
strongly admire a handsome, brilliant woman without being in love
with her; he can delight himself in trying to give her pleasure,
without feeling it necessary that she shall give him herself in
return. Since I arrived at years of discretion, I have always
smiled sarcastically at the mention of the generosity of men who
were in love; they have seemed to me rather to be asking an
immense price for what they offered. I had no such feeling toward
Miss Mayton. There have been heathens who have offered gifts to
goddesses out of pure adoration and without any idea of ever
having the exclusive companionship of their favorite divinities. I
never offered Miss Mayton any attention which did not put me into
closer sympathy with these same great-souled old Pagans, and with
such Christians as follow their good example.
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