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BOUT five o’clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat, held up her hands in amazement to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway. She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon who, while calculating the value of the flowers in petit verres, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination.

“Voyons,” said the little concierge, “cherchons la femme!”

“You?” he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a little, apologized, and then as the full splendor of the floral fête burst upon him, sat down in astonishment