"Yes," said Mae, nodding her head, and repeating her original
statement under another form, as a sort of conclusion and proof to the
conversation. "Yes, a natural acquaintance may develop into your best
friend or your worst foe." She started on page number eleven of her
letter, dipping her pen deep into the ink-stand and giving such a
particular flourish to her right arm, as to nearly upset the bouquet of
flowers at her side. It was Bero's gift. Norman Mann put out his hand
to save it. His fingers fell in among the soft flowers and touched
something stiff. It felt like a little roll of paper. Indignantly and
surprisedly he pulled it out. "What is this?" he cried.
Mae sprang forward, her cheeks aflame. "It is mine," she said.
"Did you put it here?" asked Norman.
"No."
"Then how do you know it is yours? Is not this a carnival bouquet, idly
tossed from the street to the balcony?"
Mae straightened to her utmost height which wasn't lofty then and said
hastily: "Mr. Mann, this is utterly absurd, and more.
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