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