Bride Roses by W. D. Howells
W. D. HOWELLS
By W. D. Howells
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
Houghton, Mifflin and Company MDCCCC
COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. D. HOWELLS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
A Lady, entering the florist's with her muff to her face, and
fluttering gayly up to the counter, where the florist stands folding a
mass of loose flowers in a roll of cotton batting: Good-morning, Mr.
Eichenlaub! Ah, put plenty of cotton round the poor things, if you
don't want them frozen stiff! You have no idea what a day it is, here
in your little tropic. She takes away her muff as she speaks, but
gives each of her cheeks a final pressure with it, and holds it up with
one hand inside as she sinks upon the stool before the counter.
The Florist: Dropic? With icepergs on the wintows? He nods
his head toward the frosty panes, and wraps a sheet of tissue-paper
around the cotton and the flowers.
The Lady: But you are not near the windows. Back here it is
The Florist: Yes, we got a rhevricherator to keep the rhoces
from sunstroke. He crimps the paper at the top, and twists it at the
bottom of the bundle in his hand. Hier! he calls to a young man
warming his hands at the stove. Chon, but on your hat, and dtake this
toHolt on! I forgot to but in the cart. He undoes the paper, and
puts in a card lying on the counter before him; the lady watches him
vaguely. There! He restores the wrapping and hands the package to the
young man, who goes out with it. Well, matam?
The Lady, laying her muff with her hand in it on the counter,
and leaning forward over it: Well, Mr. Eichenlaub. I am going to be
The Florist: That is what I lige. Then I don't feel so
The Lady: But to-day, I wish you to feel responsible.
I want you to take the whole responsibility. Do you know why I always
come to you, instead of those places on Fifth Avenue?
The Florist: Well, it is a good teal cheaper, for one
The Lady: Not at all! That isn't the reason, at all. Some of
your things are dearer. It's because you take so much more interest,
and you talk over what I want, and you don't urge me, when I haven't
made up my mind. You let me consult you, and you are not cross when I
don't take your advice.
The Florist: You are very goodt, matam.
The Lady: Not at all. I am simply just. And now I want you
to provide the flowers for my first Saturday: Saturday of this week, in
fact, and I want to talk the order all over with you. Are you very
The Florist: No; I am qvite at your service. We haf just had
to egsegute a larche gommission very soddenly, and we are still in a
little dtisorter yet; but
The Lady: Yes, I see. She glances at the rear of the shop,
where the floor is littered with the leaves and petals of flowers, and
sprays of fern and evergreen. A woman, followed by a belated smell of
breakfast, which gradually mingles with the odor of the plants, comes
out of a door there, and begins to gather the larger fragments into her
apron. The lady turns again, and looks at the jars and vases of cut
flowers in the window, and on the counter. What I can't understand is
how you know just the quantity of flowers to buy every day. You must
often lose a good deal.
The Florist: It gomes out about rhighdt, nearly always. When
I get left, sometimes, I can chenerally work dem off on funerals. Now,
that bic orter hat I just fill, that wass a funeral. It usedt up all
the flowers I hat ofer from yesterday.
The Lady: Don't speak of it! And the flowers, are they just
the same for funerals?
The Florist: Yes, rhoces nearly always. Whidte ones.
The Lady: Well, it is too dreadful. I am not going to have
roses, whatever I have. After a thoughtful pause, and a more careful
look around the shop: Mr. Eichenlaub, why wouldn't orchids do?
The Florist: Well, they would be bretty dtear. You couldn't
make any show at all for less than fifteen tollars.
The Lady, with a slight sigh: No, orchids wouldn't do. They
are fantastic things, anyway, and they are not very effective, as you
say. Pinks, anemones, marguerites, narcissusthere doesn't seem to be
any great variety, does there?
The Florist, patiently: There will be more, lader on.
The Lady: Yes, there will be more sun, later on. But now,
Mr. Eichenlaub, what do you think of plants in pots, set around?
The Florist: Balmss?
The Lady, vaguely: Yes, palms.
The Florist: Balmss would to. But there would not be very
The Lady: That is true; there would be no color at all, and
my rooms certainly need all the color I can get into them. Yes, I shall
have to have roses, after all. But not white ones!
The Florist: Chacks?
The Lady: No; Jacks are too old-fashioned. But haven't you
got any other very dark rose? I should like something almost black, I
The Florist, setting a vase of roses on the counter before
her: There is the Matame Hoste.
The Lady, bending over the roses, and touching one of them
with the tip of her gloved finger: Why, they are black, almost!
They are nearly as black as black pansies. They are really wonderful!
She stoops over and inhales their fragrance. Delicious! They are
beautiful, butabruptlythey are hideous. Their color makes me
creep. It is so unnatural for a rose. A rosea rose ought to
berose-colored! Have you no rose-colored roses? What are those light
pink ones there in the window?
The Florist, going to the window and getting two vases of cut
roses, with long stems, both pink, but one kind a little larger than
the other: That is the Matame Watterville, and this is the Matame
Cousine. They are sister rhoces; both the same, but the Matame
Watterville is a little bigger, and it is a little dtearer.
The Lady: They are both exquisite, and they are such a
tender almond-bloom pink! I think the Madame Cousine is quite as nice;
but of course the larger ones are more effective. She examines them,
turning her head from side to side, and then withdrawing a step, with a
decisive sigh. No; they are too pale. Have you nothing of a brighter
pink? What is that over there? She points to a vase of roses quite at
the front of the window, and the florist climbs over the mass of plants
and gets it for her.
The Florist: That is the Midio.
The Lady: The what?
The Florist: The Midio.
The Lady: You will think I am very stupid this morning.
Won't you please write it down for me? The florist writes on a sheet
of wrapping-paper, and she leans over and reads: Oh! Meteor!
Well, it is very strikinga little too striking. I don't like
such a vivid pink, and I don't like the name. Horrid to give such a
name to a flower. She puts both hands into her muff, and drifts a
little way off, as if to get him in a better perspective. Can't you
suggest something, Mr. Eichenlaub?
The Florist: Some kind off yellow rhoce? Dtea-rhoces?
The Lady, shaking her head: Tea-roses are ghastly. I hate
yellow roses. I would rather have black, and black is simply
impossible. I shall have to tell you just what I want to do. I don't
want to work up to my rooms with the flowers; I want to work up to the
young lady who is going to pour tea for me. I don't care if there isn't
a flower anywhere but on the table before her. I want a color scheme
that shall not have a false note in it, from her face to the tiniest
bud. I want them to all come together. Do you understand?
The Florist, doubtfully: Yes. After a moment: What kindt
looking yo'ng laty iss she?
The Lady: The most ethereal creature in the world.
The Florist: Yes; but what sdylefair or tark?
The Lady: Oh, fair! Very, very fair, and very, very
fragile-looking; a sort of moonlight blonde, with those remote,
starry-looking eyes, don't you know, and that pale saffron hair; not
the least ashen; and just the faintest, faintest tinge of color in her
face. I suppose you have nothing like the old-fashioned blush-rose?
That would be the very thing.
The Florist, shaking his head: Oh, no; there noding like
that in a chreen-house rhoce.
The Lady: Well, that is exactly what I want. It ought to be
something very tall and ethereal; something very, very pale, and yet
with a sort of suffusion of color. She walks up and down the shop,
looking at all the plants and flowers.
The Florist, waiting patiently: Somet'ing beside rhoces,
The Lady, coming back to him: No; it must be roses, after
all. I see that nothing else will do. What do you call those? She nods
at a vase of roses on a shelf behind him.
The Florist, turning and taking them down for her: Ah, those
whidte ones! That is the Pridte. You sait you woultn't haf whidte
The Lady: I may have to come to them. Why do they call it
The Florist: I didn't say Bridte; I said Pridte.
The Lady: Oh, Bride! And do they use Bride roses for
The Florist: Yes; and for weddtings, too; for everything.
The lady leans back a little and surveys the flowers critically. A
young man enters, and approaches the florist, but waits with respectful
impatience for the lady to transact her affairs. The florist turns to
him inquiringly, and upon this hint he speaks.
The Young Man: I want you to send a few roseswhite ones,
or nearly whiteHe looks at the lady. Perhaps
The Lady: Oh, not at all! I hadn't decided to take them.
The Florist: I got plenty this kindt; all you want. I can
always get them.
The Young Man, dreamily regarding the roses: They look
rather chilly. He goes to the stove, and drawing off his gloves, warms
his hands, and then comes back. What do you call this rose?
The Florist: The Pridte.
The Young Man, uncertainly: Oh! The lady moves a little way
up the counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man
from time to time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. Haven't
you any white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge,
the merest touch.
The Florist: No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow;
dtea-rhoces; Marshal Niel
The Young Man: Ah, I don't want anything of that kind. What
is the palest pink rose you have?
The Florist, indicating the different kinds in the vases,
where the lady has been looking at them: Well, there is nothing
lighder than the Matame Cousine, or the Matame Watterville, here; they
are sister rhoces
The Young Man: Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark. He
stops before the Madame Hoste: What a strange flower! It is almost
black! What is it for? Funerals?
The Florist: No; a good many people lige them. We don't sell
them much for funerals; they are too cloomy. They uce whidte ones for
that: Marshal Niel, dtea-rhoces, this Pridte here, and other whidte
The Young Man, with an accent of repulsion: Oh! He goes
toward the window, and looks at a mass of Easter lilies in a vase
there. He speaks as if thinking aloud: If they had a little colorBut
they would be dreadful with color! Why, you ought to have something! He continues musingly, as he returns to the florist: Haven't you got
something very delicate, and slender, about the color of pale apple
blossoms? If you had them light enough, some kind of azaleas
The Lady, involuntarily: Ah!
The Florist, after a moment, in which he and the young man
both glance at the lady, and she makes a sound in her throat to show
that she is not thinking of them, and had not spoken in reference to
what they were saying: The only azaleas I haf are these pink ones, and
those whidte ones.
The Young Man: And they are too pink and too white. Isn't
there anything tall, and very delicate? Something, wellsomething like
the old-fashioned blush-rose? But with very long stems!
The Florist: No, there is noding lige that which gomes in a
crheenhouse rhoce. We got a whidte rhoce herehe goes to his
refrigerator, and brings back a long box of rosesthat I didn't think
of before. He gives the lady an apologetic glance. You see there is
chost the least sdain of rhet on the etch of the leafs.
The Young Man, examining the petals of the roses: Ah, that
is very curious. It is a caprice, though.
The Florist: Yes, it is a kind of sbordt. That rhoce should
be berfectly whidte.
The Young Man: On the whole, I don't think it will do. I
will take some of those pure white ones. Bride, did you call them?
The Florist: Yes, Pridte. How many?
The Young Man: Oh, a dozentwo dozen; I don't know! I want
very long, slender stems, and the flowers with loose open petals; none
of those stout, tough-looking little buds. Here! This, and this, and
all these; no, I don't want any of those at all. He selects the
different stems of roses, and while the florist gets a box, and
prepares it with a lining of cotton and tissue-paper, he leans over and
writes on a card. He pauses and puts up his pencil; then he takes it
out again and covers the card with writing. He gives it to the florist.
I wish that to go into the box where it will be found the first
thing. He turns away, and encounters the lady's eyes as she chances to
look toward him. I beg your pardon! But
The Lady, smiling, and extending her hand: I felt almost
sure it was you! But I couldn't believe my senses. All the other
authorities report you in Rome.
The Young Man: I returned rather suddenly. I just got in
this morning. Our steamer was due yesterday, but there was so much ice
in the harbor that we didn't work up till a few hours ago.
The Lady: You will take all your friends by surprise.
The Young Man: I'm a good deal taken by surprise myself. Two
weeks ago I didn't dream of being here. But I made up my mind to come,
The Lady, laughing: Evidently! Well, now you must come to my
Saturdays; you are just in time for the first one. Some one you know is
going to pour tea for me. That ought to be some consolation to you for
not having stayed away long enough to escape my hospitalities.
The Young Man, blushing and smiling: Oh, it's a very
charming welcome home. I shall be sure to come. She iseverybody
iswell, I hope?
The Lady: Yes, or everybody was on Monday when I saw
them. Everybody is looking very beautiful this winter, lovelier than
ever, if possible. But so spiritual! Too spiritual! But that
spirit of hers will carry herI mean everybody, of course!through
everything. I feel almost wicked to have asked her to pour tea for me,
when I think of how much else she is doing! Do you know, I was just
ordering the flowers for my Saturday, and I had decided to take her for
my key-note in the decorations. But that made it so difficult! There
doesn't seem anything delicate and pure and sweet enough for her. There
ought to be some flower created just to express her! But as yet there
The Young Man: No, no; there isn't. But now I must run away.
I haven't been to my hotel yet; I was just driving up from the ship,
and I saw the flowers in the window, andstopped. Good-by!
The Lady: Good-by! What devotion to somebodyeverybody!
Don't forget my Saturday!
The Young Man: No, no; I won't. Good-by! He hurries out of
the door, and his carriage is heard driving away.
The Florist: I wondter if he but the attress on the cart?
No; there is noding! He turns the card helplessly over. What am I
coing to do about these flowers?
The Lady: Why, didn't he say where to send them?
The Florist: No, he rhon away and dtidn't leaf the attress.
The Lady: That was my fault! I confused him, poor
fellow, by talking to him. What are you going to do?
The Florist: That is what I lige to know! Do you know what
hotel he stobs at?
The Lady: No; he didn't say. I have no idea where he is
going. But wait a moment! I think I know where he meant to send the
The Florist: Oh, well; that is all I want to know.
The Lady: Yes, but I am not certain. After a moment's
thought. I know he wants them to go at once; a great deal may depend
upon iteverything. Suddenly: Could you let me see that card?
The Florist, throwing it on the counter before her: Why,
soddonly; if he is a frhiendt of yours
The Lady, shrinking back: Ah, it isn't so simple! That makes
it all the worse. It would be a kind of sacrilege! I have no rightor,
wait! I will just glance at the first word. It may be a clew. And I
want you to bear me witness, Mr. Eichenlaub, that I didn't read a word
more. She catches up a piece of paper, and covers all the card except
the first two words. Yes! It is she! Oh, how perfectly delightful!
It's charming, charming! It's one of the prettiest things that ever
happened! And I shall be the meansno, not the means, quite, but the
accidentof bringing them together! Put the card into the box, Mr.
Eichenlaub, and don't let me see it an instant longer, or I shall read
every word of it, in spite of myself! She gives him the card, and
turns, swiftly, and makes some paces toward the door.
The Florist, calling after her: But the attress, matam. You
The Lady, returning: Oh, yes! Give me your pencil. She
writes on a piece of the white wrapping-paper. There! That is it. She
stands irresolute, with the pencil at her lip. There was something
else that I seem to have forgotten.
The Florist: Your flowers?
The Lady: Oh, yes, my flowers. I nearly went away without
deciding. Let me see. Where are those white roses with the pink tinge
on the edge of the petals? The florist pushes the box towards her, and
she looks down at the roses. No, they won't do. They look
somehowcruel! I don't wonder he wouldn't have them. They are totally
out of character. I will take those white Bride roses, too. It seems a
fatality, but there really isn't anything else, and I can laugh with
her about them, if it all turns out well. She talks to herself rather
than the florist, who stands patient behind the counter, and repeats,
dreamily, Laugh with her!
The Florist: How many shall I sendt you, matam?
The Lady: Oh, loads. As many as you think I ought to have. I
shall not have any other flowers, and I mean to toss them on the table
in loose heaps. Perhaps I shall have some smilax to go with them.
The Florist: Yes; or cypress wine.
The Lady: No; that is too crapy and creepy. Smilax, or
nothing; and yet I don't like that hard, shiny, varnishy look of smilax
either. You wouldn't possibly have anything like that wild vine, it's
scarcely more than a golden thread, that trails over the wayside bushes
in New England? Dodder, they call it.
The Florist: I nefer heardt off it.
The Lady: No, but that would have been just the thing. It
suggests the color of her hair; it would go with her. Well, I will have
the smilax too, though I don't like it. I don't see why all the flowers
should take to being so inexpressive. Send all the smilax you judge
best. It's quite a long table, nine or ten feet, and I want the vine
going pretty much all about it.
The Florist: Perhaps I better sendt somebody to see?
The Lady: Yes, that would be the best. Good-morning.
The Florist: Goodtmorning, matam. I will sendt rhoundt
The Lady: Very well. She is at the door, and she is about
to open it, when it is opened from the outside, and another lady,
deeply veiled, presses hurriedly in, and passes down the shop to the
counter, where the florist stands sorting the long-stemmed Bride roses
in the box before him. The first lady does not go out; she lingers at
the door, looking after the lady who has just come in; then, with a
little hesitation, she slowly returns, as if she had forgotten
something, and waits by the stove until the florist shall have attended
to the new-comer.
The Second Lady, throwing back her veil, and bending over to
look at the box of roses: What beautiful roses! What do you call
The Florist: That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost
oudt. It is coing to be a very bopular rhoce.
The Second Lady: How very white it is! It seems not to have
the least touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!
The Florist: It iss gold-looging.
The Second Lady: What do they use this rose for? Forfor
The Florist: For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties,
afternoon dteas, dtinners, funerals
The Second Lady: Ah, that is shocking! I can't have it,
then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost her only
childa young girland I wish it to be something
expressivecharacteristicsomething that won't wound them with other
associations. Have you nothingnothing of that kind? I want something
that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl,
and yetHaven't you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not
this deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some
kind of lily?
The Florist: Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils?
Azaleas? Hyacinths? Marcuerites?
The Second Lady: No, no; they won't do, any of them! Haven't
you any other kind of roses, that won't be so terriblyterriblyShe
looks round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.
The Florist: Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal
Niel; Matame Watterville and Matame Cousinethese pink ones; they are
sister rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks
The Second Lady: No, no! They won't any of them do. There
ought to be a flower invented that would say somethingpity,
sympathythat wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything?
Some flowering vine?
The Florist: Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful
wine, with that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume
The Second Lady, looking at a length of the jasmine vine
which he trails on the counter before her: Yes, that is very
beautiful; and it is girlish, and likeBut no, it wouldn't do! That
perfume is heartbreaking! Don't send that!
The Florist, patiently: Cypress wine? Smilax?
The Second Lady, shaking her head vaguely: Some other
The Florist: Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I
coult get you some of that other chasminkindt of push, that gifs its
berfume after dtark
The Second Lady: At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But
those pale green flowers, that are not like flowersno, they wouldn't
do! I shall have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it
The Florist: It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam.
The Second Lady, with mystification: Oh! Well, let me have a
great many of them. Have you plenty?
The Florist: As many as you lige.
The Second Lady: Well, I don't want any of these hard little
buds. I want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open,
and fragile-lookingsomething like her. The first lady starts.
Yes: like thisand thisand this. Be sure you get them all like
these. And send themI will give you the address. She writes on a
piece of the paper before her. There, that is it. Here is my card. I
want it to go with them. She turns from the florist with a sigh, and
presses her handkerchief to her eyes.
The Florist: You want them to go rhighdt away? He takes up
the card, and looks at it absently, and then puts it down, and examines
the roses one after another. I don't know whether I cot enough of
these oben ones on handt, already
The Second Lady: Oh, you mustn't send them to-day! I forgot.
It isn't to be till to-morrow. You must send them in the morning. But I
am going out of town to-day, and so I came in to order them now. Be
very careful not to send them to-day!
The Florist: All rhighdt. I loog oudt.
The Second Lady: I am so glad you happened to ask me. It has
all been so dreadfully sudden, and I am quite bewildered. Let me think
if there is anything more! As she stands with her finger to her lip,
the first lady makes a movement as if about to speak, but does not say
anything. No, there is nothing more, I believe.
The Florist, to the First Lady: Was there somet'ing?
The First Lady: No. There is no hurry.
The Second Lady, turning towards her: Oh, I beg your pardon!
I have been keeping you
The First Lady: Not at all. I merely returned toBut it
isn't of the least consequence. Don't let me hurry you!
The Second Lady: Oh, I have quite finished, I believe. But I
can hardly realize anything, and I was afraid of going away and
forgetting something, for I am on my way to the station. My husband is
very ill, and I am going South with him; and this has been so sudden,
so terribly unexpected. The only daughter of a friend
The First Lady: The only
The Second Lady: Yes, it is too much! But perhaps you have
comeI ought to have thought of it; you may have come on the same kind
of sad errand yourself; you will know how to excuse
The First Lady, with a certain resentment: Not at all! I was
just ordering some flowers for a reception.
The Second Lady: Oh! Then I beg your pardon! But there seems
nothing else in the world butdeath. I am very sorry. I beg your
pardon! She hastens out of the shop, and the first lady remains,
looking a moment at the door after she has vanished. Then she goes
slowly to the counter.
The Lady, severely: Mr. Eichenlaub, I have changed my mind
about the roses and the smilax. I will not have either. I want you to
send me all of that jasmine vine that you can get. I will have my whole
decorations of that. I wonder I didn't think of that before. Mr.
Eichenlaub! She hesitates. Who was that lady?
The Florist, looking about among the loose papers before him:
Why, I dton't know. I cot her cart here, somewhere.
The Lady, very nervously: Never mind about the card! I don't
wish to know who she was. I have no right to ask. No! I won't look at
it. She refuses the card, which he has found, and which he offers to
her. I don't care for her name, butWhere was she sending the
The Florist, tossing about the sheets of paper on the
counter: She dtidn't say, but she wrhote it down here, somewhere
The Lady, shrinking back: No, no! I don't want to see it!
But what right had she to ask me such a thing as that? It was very bad
taste; very obtuse,whoever she was. Have youahfound it?
The Florist, offering her a paper across the counter: Yes;
here it iss.
The Lady, catching it from him, and then, after a glance at
it, starting back with a shriek: Ah-h-h! How terrible! But it can't
be! Oh, I don't know what to thinkIt is the most dreadful thing that
everIt's impossible! She glances at the paper again, and breaks into
a hysterical laugh: Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why, this is the address that
I wrote out for that young gentleman's flowers! You have made a
terrible mistake, Mr. Eichenlaubyou have almost killed me. I
thoughtI thought that woman was sending her funeral flowers
totoShe holds her hand over her heart, and sinks into the chair
beside the counter, where she lets fall the paper. You have almost
The Florist: I am very sorry. I dtidn't subboseBut the
oder attress must be here. I will fint itHe begins tossing the
papers about again.
The Lady, springing to her feet: No, no! I wouldn't look at
it now for the world! I have had one escape. Send me all jasmine,
The Florist: Yes, all chasmin. The lady goes slowly and
absently toward the door, where she stops, and then she turns and goes
back slowly, and as if forcing herself.
The Lady: Mr. Eichenlaub.
The Florist: Yes, matam.
The Lady: Have youplentyof those whiteBride roses?
The Florist: I get all you want of them.
The Lady: Open, fragile-looking ones, with long, slender
The Florist: I get you any kindt you lige!
The Lady: Send me Bride roses, then. I don't care! I will
not be frightened out of them! It is too foolish.
The Florist: All rhighdt. How many you think you want?
The Lady: Send all you like! Masses of them! Heaps!
The Florist: All rhighdt. And the chasmin?
The Lady: No; I don't want it now.
The Florist: You want the smilax with them, then, I
The Lady: No, I don't want any smilax with them, either.
Nothing but those white Bride roses! She turns and goes to the door;
she calls back, Nothing but the roses, remember!
The Florist: All rhighdt. I don't forget. No chasmin; no
smilax; no kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces.
The Lady: Only roses.
The Florist, alone, thoughtfully turning over the papers on
his counter: That is sdrainche that I mage that mistake about the
attress! I can't find the oder one anwhere; and if I lost it, what am I
coing to do with the rhoces the other lady ortert? He steps back and
looks at his feet, and then stoops and picks up a paper, which he
examines. Ach! here it iss! Zlipped down behindt. Now I don't want to
get it mixed with that oder any more. He puts it down at the left, and
takes up the address for the young man's roses on the right; he stares
at the two addresses in a stupefaction. That is very sdrainche too.
Well! He drops the papers with a shrug, and goes on arranging the
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS
PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO.
Plays and Poems
BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
A Counterfeit Presentment. 18mo, $1.25.
Out of the Question. 18mo, $1.25.
The Sleeping-Car, and other Farces. 12mo, $1.00.
The Elevator; The Sleeping-Car; The Parlor Car; The Register. Each
Room Forty-Five; Bride Roses; An Indian Giver; The Smoking-Car. (
The last two in Press.) Each, 18mo, 50 cents.
A Sea Change. $1.00.
Poems. 12mo, parchment cover, $2.00.
For Mr. Howells's novels and books of travel, see Catalogue.
Houghton, Mifflin and Company
BOSTON AND NEW YORK