“White silk ones,” said he—­“or black either, for that matter, for the price is the same.”

“Well,” said she, “why did you select mitts, specially?”

“What first attracted me to them,” he said simply, “was that they came to precisely the sum I had planned to spend:  seventy-five cents.”

The little corrugation in Sharlee’s brow showed how carefully she was thinking over the young man’s suggestion from all possible points of view.  You could easily follow her thought by her speaking sequence of expressions.  Clearly it ran like this:  “Mitts—­splendid!  Just the gift for a girl who’s sick in bed.  The one point to consider is, could any other gift possibly be better?  No, surely none....  Wait a minute, though!  Let’s take this thing slowly and be absolutely sure we’re right before we go ahead....  Run over carefully all the things that are ever used as gifts.  Anything there that is better than mitts?  Perhaps, after all ...  Mitts ...  Why, look here, isn’t there one small objection, one trifling want of the fulness of perfection to be raised against the gift of mitts?”

“There’s this point against mitts,” said Sharlee slowly.  “Fifi’s in bed now, and I’m afraid she’s likely to be there for some time.  Of course she could not wear the mitts in bed.  She would have to tuck them away in a drawer somewhere.  Don’t you think it might be a good idea to give her something that she could enjoy at once—­something that would give her pleasure now and so help to lighten these tedious hours while she must be in her room?”

The mitts were the child of Queed’s own brain.  Unconsciously he had set his heart on them; but his clock-like mind at once grasped the logic of this argument, and he met it generously.

“Your point is well taken.  It proves the wisdom of getting the advice of a woman on such a matter.  Now I had thought also of a book—­”

“I’ll tell you!” cried Sharlee, nearly bowled over by a brilliant inspiration.  “A great many men that I know make it a rule to send flowers to girls that are sick, and—­”

“Flowers!”

“It does seem foolish—­such a waste, doesn’t it?—­but really you’ve no idea how mad girls are about flowers, or how much real joy they can bring into a sick-room.  And, by changing the water often, and—­so on, they last a long time, really an incredible time—­”

“You recommend flowers, then?  Very well,” he said resolutely—­“that is settled then.  Now as to the kind.  I have only a botanical knowledge of flowers—­shall we say something in asters, perhaps, chrysanthemums or dahlias?  What is your advice as to that?”

“Well, I advise roses.”

“Roses—­good.  I had forgotten them for the moment.  White roses?”

A little shiver ran through her.  “No, no!  Let them be the reddest you can find.”

“Next, as to the cost of red roses.”

“Oh, there’ll be no trouble about that.  Simply tell the florist that you want seventy-five cents’ worth, and he will give you a fine bunch of them.  By the way, I’d better put his name and address down on a piece of paper for you.  Be sure to go to this one because I know him, and he’s extremely reliable.”