The Argosy — page 165: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

150 A SHOWER OF DAFFODILS. I: N a world where the real and the unreal travel side by side, and the visible and the invisible blend within the consciousness, who shall assert what is possible or impossible ? The strange events, which this story is to unfold, are absolutely true, and cannot be explained away. It was seven o’clock in the evening of a certain March day when a young man of prepossessing appearance sauntered up to St. James’s Hall. Madame Schumann was to play this evening, and the crowded staircase leading to the orchestra had overflowed into Picca- dilly Place. The young man paced up and down restlessly. A university friend had promised to meet him at Victoria, but he had not turned up, being probably too deep in his investigation of vortices to remem- ber so trifling an engagement as a concert. The young fellow began to debate within himself whether he would not go back to his hotel and look over his monograph for the ‘‘ Royal” and “cut” the concert; but at that moment a cab drove up, and an old lady descended, all in a flutter, followed by a slight girl dressed in a fantastic costume of some soft Indian fabric. Her dark hair hung about her shoulders in waving masses, and rested against a clear and brightly-coloured olive cheek. About her neck was an orange china-silk shawl, its deep fringe entangled in her hair. She carried a light flower-basket filled with daffodils. In her haste to leave the cab she missed the step, and would have fallen had not the young man we have noticed sprung forward and caught her, But the daffodils! They spread themselves like a golden carpet upon the pavement. “Oh, Mrs. Hamilton,” exclaimed the girl, “my poor daffodils! And after all the pains we have taken too.” Mrs. Hamilton did not reply to this lament. She was thanking the polite stranger, who was now picking up the scattered flowers and putting them into the dainty basket. “"Thanks to the March wind the pavement is dry and clean,” he said, as he replaced the last flower and handed the basket to its owner. He looked into her eyes as he did this and almost started. He had never in all his experience seen such an earnest face as this girl’s, The eyes were at once bright and searching, frank and timid. He could find no word to describe them. But he only looked into them a moment, and heard her thank him, and then CONNICLOOOKS.(E)