He had walked down Broadway and seen the price of Jacqueminot roses, and he was not soothed or allured at this particular moment by the picture of a girl whose half-dozen cabins were crowded with them.
"Oh, the devil!" he said.

"It sounds vulgar." And he walked up and down fast, squaring his shoulders, with his hands in the pockets of his rough, well-worn coat.

He had seen in England something of the American young woman with millionaire relatives.

He had been scarcely more than a boy when the American flood first began to rise.

He had been old enough, however, to hear people talk.