And it became green with self-consciousness and tobacco smoke. One rose, still half-blown, perhaps the finest on the tree got the place of honour in the gardener's tastefully arranged bouquet; it was brought to the young, lordly master of the house, and drove with him in the carriage; it sat as a flower of beauty among other flowers and lovely green leaves; it went to a splendid gathering, where men and women sat in fine attire illuminated by a thousand lamps; music sounded; it was in the sea of light which filled the theatre; and when amidst the storm of applause the celebrated young dancer fluttered forward on the stage, bouquet after bouquet flew like a rain of flowers before her feet. There fell the bouquet in which the lovely rose sat like a gem. It felt the fullness of its in describable good fortune, the honour and splendour into which floated; and as it touched the floor, it danced too, it sprang, and flew along the broads, breaking its stalk as it fell. It did not come into the hands of the favourite, it rolled behind the scenes, where a scene-shifter took it up, saw how beautiful it was, how full of fragrance it was, but there was no stalk on it. So he put it in his pocket, and when he went home in the evening it was in a dram-glass, and lay there in water the whole night. Early in the morning it was set before the grandmother, who sat in her armchair, old and frail. She looked at the lovely broken rose, and rejoiced in its beauty and its scent.