It was the middle of winter. There was nothing in the gardens but a few old flowers, and I suppose that for two hundred miles around there was not a rose to be bought for love or money. Only in the garden of a friend of mine, in a sunny corner between the oven and the brick wall, there was a rose tree growing which had on it one bud. It was white, and it had been promised to the fair haired girl to wear at the party.
When I arrived at the party and went to take off my coat, I found the girl there already. She was dressed in pure white, with her great white arms and shoulders showing, and her bright hair glittering in the candlelight. The white rose was pinned on her chest. She looked like a queen. I said "Good-evening," and turned away quickly to the mirror to arrange my old black scarf across my old black dress.
