The editor waved his hand to him from the door, but the old fellow shook his head, and made a warning, friendly gesture with his arm.
Harkless usually ate his breakfast alone, as he was the latest riser in Plattville.

(There were days in the winter when he did not reach the hotel until eight o'clock.) This morning he found a bunch of white roses, still wet with dew and so fragrant that the whole room was fresh and sweet with their odor, prettily arranged in a bowl on the table, and, at his plate, the largest of all with a pin through the stem.

He looked up, smilingly, and nodded at the red-haired girl.

"Thank you, Charmion," he said.

"That's very pretty." She turned even redder than she always was, and answered nothing, vigorously darting her brush at an imaginary fly on the cloth.