and there , the elegant flower-shop where for months hes pretended to admire seasonal flowers in the display window : first daffodils like gay yellow telephones and then tulips , red like her cheeks when she catches his gaze on her , for his gaze is focused past the flowers on one of the three florists , honey-blonde and slim , more graceful than all the flowers in the world , and then , finally , one june day ( roses displayed now ) , he summons up courage and pushes the door open , another jangle , the bell , the three aproned girls twittering in french no more comprehensible to him than the twittering of the two love-birds in the great gilded cage and louise ( he is louis and she is louise , hell say to her later and say it couldnt be coincidence ) smiles shyly and in lovely fragmented english counsels his bouquet and later tells him she was jealous of the girl the bouquet was for , not knowing then that it was a pretext .