He had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies.

They had been her mother's favourite flower.

"Monsieur Folk, the great artist," had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame informed her.
It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and was built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree.

She breakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appeared before her, smiling and with his hat in his hand.

He excused himself for intruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him that her first morning might be his only chance.