the poet, lived across her garden. His picture, too, she must have seen in the magazines. The delicate, tender, modest, flattering message could not be ignored.”

Ravenel noticed beside the roses a small flowering-pot containing a plant. Without shame he brought his opera-glasses and employed them from the cover of his window-curtain. A nutmeg geranium!

With the true poetic instinct he dragged a book of useless information from his shelves, and tore open the leaves at “The Language of Flowers.”

“Geranium, Nutmeg—I expect a meeting.”

So! Romance never does things by halves. If she comes back to you she brings gifts and her knitting, and will sit in your chimney-corner if you will let her.

And now Ravenel smiled. The lover smiles when he thinks he has won. The woman who loves ceases to smile with victory. He ends a battle; she begins hers. What a pretty idea to set the four roses in her window for him to see! She must have a sweet, poetic soul. And now to contrive the meeting.

A whistling and slamming of doors preluded the coming of Sammy Brown.

Ravenel smiled again. Even Sammy Brown was shone upon by the far-flung rays of the renaissance. Sammy, with his ultra clothes, his horseshoe pin, his plump face, his trite slang, his uncomprehending admiration of Ravenel—the broker’s clerk made an excellent foil to the new, bright, unseen visitor to the poet’s sombre apartment.

Sammy went to his old seat by the window, and looked out over the dusty green foliage in the garden. Then he looked at his watch, and rose hastily.

“By grabs!” he exclaimed. “Twenty after four! I can’t stay, old man; I’ve got a date at 4.30.”

“Why did you come, then,” asked Ravenel, with sarcastic jocularity, “if you had an engagement at that time? I thought you business men kept better account of your minutes and seconds than that.”

Sammy hesitated in the doorway and turned pinker.

“Fact is, Ravvy,” he explained, as to a customer whose margin is exhausted, “I didn’t know I had it till I came. I’ll tell you, old man—there’s a dandy girl in that old house next door that I’m dead gone on. I put it straight—we’re engaged. The old man say ‘nit’—but that don’t go. He keeps her pretty close. I can see Edith’s window from yours here. She gives me a tip when she’s going shopping, and I meet her. It’s 4.30 to-day. Maybe I ought to have explained sooner, but I know it’s all right with you—so long.”

“How do you get your ‘tip,’ as you call it?” asked Ravenel, losing a little spontaneity from his smile.

“Roses,” said Sammy briefly. “Four of ’em to-day. Means four o’clock at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third.”

“But the geranium?” persisted Ravenel, clutching at the end of flying Romance’s trailing robe.

“Means half-past,” shouted Sammy from the hall. “See you to-morrow.”