Breakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell rang and the rooms filled; a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe . Pupils and teachers sat neatly arrayed, orderly and expectant, each bearing in her hand the bouquet of felicitation⁠—the prettiest spring-flowers all fresh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had no bouquet. I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me. Mademoiselle St. Pierre marked my empty hands⁠—she could not believe I had been so remiss; with avidity her eye roved over and round me: surely I must have some solitary symbolic flower somewhere: some small knot of violets, something to win myself praise for taste, commendation for ingenuity. The unimaginative Anglaise proved better than the Parisienne