But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. "How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?" "Put them where they came from," replied Mrs.
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