"It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time.
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