“Very well,” said I; “give me one now.”

“You may have them all at the table.”

“But I shall not want them then.”

She gave me an enigmatical glance, then cut a rose for me which was withered and worm-eaten.

“Gretchen is unkind,” I observed.

“What matters it whether the rose be fresh or withered?  It dies sooner or later.  Nothing lasts, not even the world itself.  You wish a rose, not because it is a rose, fresh and fragrant, but because I give it to you.”

“You wrong me, Gretchen; I love a rose better than I love a woman.  It never smiles falsely, the rose, nor plays with the hearts of men.  I love a rose because it is sweet, and because it was made for man’s pleasure and not for his pain.”

“That sounds like a copy-book,” laughed Gretchen.  “The withered rose should teach you a lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“That whatever a woman gives to man withers in the exchange; a rose, a woman’s love.”

Said I reproachfully:  “You are spoiling a very pretty picture.  What do you know about philosophy?”

“What does Herr know about roses?” defiantly.

“Much; one cannot pick too many fresh ones.  And let me tell you a lesson which you should have learned among these roses.  Nature teaches us to love all things fresh and beautiful; a rose, a face, a woman’s love.”

“Here,” holding forth a great red rose.

“No,” said I, “I’ll keep this one.”

She said nothing, but went on snipping a red rose here, a white one there.  She wore gloves several sizes too large for her, so I judged that her hands were small and tender, perhaps white.  And there was a grace in her movements, dispite the ungainly dress and shoes, which suggested a more intimate knowledge of velvets and silks than of calico.  In my mind’s eye I placed her at the side of Phyllis.  Phyllis reminded me of a Venus whom Nature had whimsically left unfinished.  Then she had turned from Venus to Diana, and Gretchen became evolved:  a Diana, slim and willowy.  A sculptor would have said that Phyllis might have been a goddess, and Gretchen a wood nymph, had not Nature suddenly changed her plans.  What I admired in Phyllis was her imperfect beauties.  What I admired in Gretchen was her beautiful perfections.  And they were so alike and yet so different.  Have you ever seen a body of fresh water, ruffled by a sudden gust of wind, the cool blue-green tint which follows?  Then you have seen the color of Gretchen’s eyes.  Have you ever seen ripe wheat in a sun-shower?  Then you have seen the color of Gretchen’s hair.  All in all, I was forced to admit that, from an impartial and artistic view Gretchen the barmaid was far more beautiful than Phyllis.  From the standpoint of a lover it was altogether a different matter.

“Gretchen,” said I, “you are very good-looking.”

“It would not be difficult to tell Herr’s nationality.”