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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Good thing, a boutonniere," he explained. "Lighten it up a little. Rehearsal's dry work, usually. Thinking about it last night. Why not lighten it up a little? Why shouldn't an actor dress as well for a company of strangers at a reception? Ought to make it as cheerful as we can." "Yes," said Tinker, nodding. "Something in that. I believe they work better.
The pews were filled with the beauty, fashion, and aristocracy of the capital, and a splendid crowd they formed. Every lady held a rich bouquet; every gentleman wore a rare boutonniere. Mr. Fabian looked at his watch from moment to moment. We have scarcely ever seen a more impatient bridegroom than Mr. Fabian Rockharrt. But, then, childish disorders go hard with elderly folks.
Here is a pretty boutonniere, and I will fasten it much better in your buttonhole let me." In vain did he try to seem cold to her; his heart thawed in spite of himself. She held him so charmingly by the lapel of his coat, touching his cheek with the tip end of an aigrette which set so charmingly on the top of the most becoming of fur caps which she wore.
Order it by telephone. Give the girl your boutonniere; that will jolly her. Get a four-guinea box opposite the royal box." As she sat deeply sunk in the luxurious first-class seat, her little feet could not reach the floor, and the effort with which she bent forward was heroic.
It is a little stringy for a boutonniere, but it fills the modern-trained eye as no other flower can fill it. We used to say that a girl was as sweet as a rose; we have forgotten that language.
The public had refused to place any confidence whatsoever in his patent reversible spats, which, when turned inside out, could be made useful as galoches; and the beaux of New York actually rejected with scorn the celluloid chrysanthemum, which he had hoped would become a popular boutonnière because of its durability and cheapness.
To-day, while filling her basket with blossoms, some stray waft of perfume, or perhaps the rich scarlet lips of a geranium glowing against the grey stone of the wall, prattled of Fifth Avenue, and recalled a gay boutonnière she once saw Mrs. Carew fasten in Mr. Palma's coat. Like a serpent this thought trailed over all, and the beauty of the morning suddenly vanished.
The Frenchman shook his head ruefully: "He rolled the answer back and forth seven times, and then he did not make it." Probably the I.G. had learned by experience that a person can seldom pick up a hasty speech just where he dropped it. Another time a very charming lady went up to him at a soirée with a rose in her hand. "May I offer you my boutonnière?" said she, smiling.
Buckles of red paste brilliants burned on the insteps of his slender polished shoes with scarlet heels; and his snug black silk stockings set off ankles and calves so well-turned that the Prince of Sin himself might have taken pride in them. For boutonnière he wore a smouldering ember so true an imitation that at first he himself had hesitated to touch it.
When the door closed, he walked to the glass. He twitched at his crimson neck scarf and whisked his pearl-gray spats; he made a pass or two with his military brushes at his cherished part, and took his violets from a glass of water to squeeze them dry on a towel. While he adjusted his boutonnière, he gazed at his smiling image and twisted his neck to look for wrinkles in his coat.
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