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.

One of the dances was an old-fashioned cotillon, and one of the figures, the “coquette,” brought every one, in turn, before me.  I received a pleasant word or two from those whom I knew, and a long, kind, silent glance from Miss May Danvers.  Where had been my eyes?  She was tall, stately, twenty-five, had large dark eyes, and long dark lashes!  Again the changes of the dance brought her near me; I threw (or strove to throw) unutterable meanings into my eyes, and cast them upon hers.  She seemed startled, looked suddenly away, looked back to me, and—­blushed.  I knew her for what is called “a nice girl”—­that is, tolerably frank, gently feminine, and not dangerously intelligent.  Was it possible that I had overlooked so much character and intellect?