Grateful as I was for the man’s help, he aggravated me by his ignorance.  When I asked if he knew the lady, he answered:  “It’s more’n likely you know her better.”  But where did she come from?  Down from the hill, he guessed, but it might ha’ been up the road.  How did she look? was she old or young? what was the color of her eyes? of her hair?  There, now, I was too much for him.  When a woman kept one o’ them speckled veils over her face, turned her head away and held her parasol between, how were you to know her from Adam?  I declare to you, I couldn’t arrive at one positive particular.  Even when he affirmed that she was tall, he added, the next instant:  “Now I come to think on it, she stepped mighty quick; so I guess she must ha’ been short.”

By the time we reached the hotel, I was in a state of fever; opiates and lotions had their will of me for the rest of the day.  I was glad to escape the worry of questions, and the conventional sympathy expressed in inflections of the voice which are meant to soothe, and only exasperate.  The next morning, as I lay upon my sofa, restful, patient, and properly cheerful, the waiter entered with a bouquet of wild flowers.

“Who sent them?” I asked.

“I found them outside your door, sir.  Maybe there’s a card; yes, here’s a bit o’ paper.”

I opened the twisted slip he handed me, and read:  “From your dell—­and mine.”  I took the flowers; among them were two or three rare and beautiful varieties, which I had only found in that one spot.  Fool, again!  I noiselessly kissed, while pretending to smell them, had them placed on a stand within reach, and fell into a state of quiet and agreeable contemplation.

Tell me, yourself, whether any male human being is ever too old for sentiment, provided that it strikes him at the right time and in the right way!  What did that bunch of wild flowers betoken?  Knowledge, first; then, sympathy; and finally, encouragement, at least.  Of course she had seen my accident, from above; of course she had sent the harvest laborer to aid me home.  It was quite natural she should imagine some special romantic interest in the lonely dell, on my part, and the gift took additional value from her conjecture.

Four days afterward there was a hop in the large dining-room of the hotel.  Early in the morning a fresh bouquet had been left at my door.  I was tired of my enforced idleness, eager to discover the fair unknown (she was again fair, to my fancy!), and I determined to go down, believing that a cane and a crimson velvet slipper on the left foot would provoke a glance of sympathy from certain eyes, and thus enable me to detect them.

The fact was, the sympathy was much too general and effusive.  Everybody, it seemed, came to me with kindly greetings; seats were vacated at my approach, even fat Mrs. Huxter insisting on my taking her warm place, at the head of the room.  But Bob Leroy—­you know him—­as gallant a gentleman as ever lived, put me down at the right point, and kept me there.  He only meant to divert me, yet gave me the only place where I could quietly inspect all the younger ladies, as dance or supper brought them near.