d that she was too good a woman to defy her conscience and be happy, he acquiesced in her decision--refrained from pleading with her, refrained from trying to see her again.
His only indulgence was to send violets to her home in Paris for the ninth of December; the ninth of December was her birthday, and violets she had once told him were her favorite flower. He did not scribble any greeting with them, did not even enclose a card; he was sure that she would know who sent them, and it lightened his pain to feel that she would know. Indeed, to recall himself to her thus mutely was a joy, the only joy that he had experienced since the day of the "good-by "; almost it was as if he were going to her, that moment in the London florist's when he held the flowers that would reach her hands; she did not seem so lost to him for the moment, the separation did not seem so blank.
The next year also he sent violets for the ninth of December. His emotions, it is true, were less vivid this time, but he was glad to show her that he was faith
A short and quite unfinished piece of work. The fable is simple: A men and a woman were (by some forces of nature) separeated five years ago, she married another, and he forgot about her as time went by. However, he sent, as a token of love, violet's on her birthday. She thinks it a sign of his love - that had long ceased to exist. When they meet again, she in an unhappy marriage, seeks comfort in him - but is he ready to tell her the terrible truth - that he no longer loves her, or just keep silent and persuade her to elope? I would preffer more background story, and it could have been a longer and more dense novelette, but this is too short