always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify her that he was dangerous, and then he dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened, and he said quickly,
"It's all pansies; it must be hers!"
Isabel smiled kindly.
"Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold."
"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked.
"No, I can't trust you; I am afraid you wouldn't give it back."
"I am not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower?"
Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the bouquet.
"Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I am doing for you."
"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed, with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.
"Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the world!"
"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I wish to show her that I believe in her still."
"It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."
"And is that all you can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond," said the young man, in a tone of fine general reference. "You know that our acquaintance goes back very far—quite into the days of our innocent childhood."
