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He had never before seen one like it. As she held it near him it exhaled an exquisitely reminiscent perfume a perfume which seemed to breathe of old joys, old memories, and loves of long ago. "Is it not beautiful?" she said. "It is called the Toinnette. Take it, dear, and keep it for memory." Then, as he took it from her, her eyes widened in a sudden anguish of dread and comprehension.
The nearest he ever came to this was when a man who knew a good deal about flowers once inspected the faded rose, at Varick's request, and listened to the description of how it looked when fresh. "Why, yes," he said, "I know that variety. It grows in Italy, but I don't think it's known here. They call it the Toinnette!"
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