He bought her a great handful. She held them in both hands and gave him
her parasol to carry.

"Mine is an inherited superstition, so I will not be ashamed of it," she
told him. "We have always believed that white roses bring happiness,
especially if they come accidentally at a critical moment."

He glanced behind at the retreating figure of the flower woman.

"If happiness is so easily purchased," he said, "what a pity it is that
I did not buy the barrowful!"

"It isn't a matter of quantity at all," she assured him. "One blossom
would have been enough and you were really frightfully extravagant."

She drifted into silence. They were walking eastwards now, and before
them was the great yellow haze which hung over the sun-enveloped city, a
haze which stretched across the whole arc of the heavens, and underneath
which were toiling the millions to whom his life was consecrated. For a
moment the grim inappropriateness of these hours struck him with a pang
of remorse. He felt almost like a traitor to be walking with this slim,
beautiful girl whose face was hidden from him now in the mass of white
blossoms. And then his sense of proportion came to the rescue. He knew
that he had but one desire--to work out his ends by the most effective
means. It did not even disturb him to reflect that for the first time
for many years he had found pleasure in what was merely an interlude.

"We turn here," she directed. "You see, we are close to home now. My
uncle will be so glad to see you, Mr. Maraton, and I cannot tell you
how delighted I am that you are coming to Lyndwood."