Austen took his way slowly across the state-house park, threading among the groups between the snow-banks towards the wide facade of the Pelican Hotel.  Presently he paused, and then with a sudden determination crossed the park diagonally into Main Street, walking rapidly southward and scrutinizing the buildings on either side until at length these began to grow wide apart, and he spied a florist’s sign with a greenhouse behind it.  He halted again, irresolutely, in front of it, flung open the door, and entered a boxlike office filled with the heated scents of flowers.  A little man eyed him with an obsequious interest which he must have accorded to other young men on similar errands.  Austen may be spared a repetition of the very painful conversation that ensued; suffice it to say that, after mature deliberation, violets were chosen.  He had a notion—­not analyzed—­that she would prefer violets to roses.  The information that the flowers were for the daughter of the president of the Northeastern Railroads caused a visible quickening of the little florist’s regard, an attitude which aroused a corresponding disgust and depression in Austen.

“Oh, yes,” said the florist, “she’s up at Crewe’s.”  He glanced at Austen apologetically.  “Excuse me,” he said, “I ought to know you.  Have you a card?”

“No,” said Austen, with emphasis.

“And what name, please?”

“No name,” said the donor, now heartily repenting of his rashness, and slamming the glass door in a manner that made the panes rattle behind him.

As he stood hesitating on the curb of the crossing, he began to wish that he had not left Ripton.

“Hello, Austen,” said a voice, which he recognized as the Honourable Brush Bascom’s, “didn’t know you ever came down here in session time.”

“What are you doing down here, Brush?” Austen asked.

Mr. Bascom grinned in appreciation of this pleasantry.

“I came for my health,” he said; “I prefer it to Florida.”

“I’ve heard that it agrees with some people,” said Austen.

Mr. Bascom grinned again.

“Just arrived?” he inquired.

“Just,” said Austen.

“I thought you’d get here sooner or later,” said Mr. Bascom.  “Some folks try stayin’ away, but it ain’t much use.  You’ll find the honourable Hilary doing business at the same old stand, next to the governor, in Number Seven up there.”  And Mr. Bascom pointed to the well-known window on the second floor.

“Thanks, Brush,” said Austen, indifferently.  “To tell the truth, I came down to hear that promising protege of yours speak on national affairs.  I understand you’re pushing his bills along.”

Mr. Bascom, with great deliberation, shut one of his little eyes.

“So long,” he said, “come and see me when you get time.”