"This here isn't the season for celery, as you know well. This here's the season for crocuses, as any one can see if they use their eyes."
"James, you're right. Forgive me. It is no day for quarrelling."
It was no day for working either. The sun shone upon the close-cropped green of the deer park, the sky was blue above the rose garden, in the tapioca grove a thrush was singing. I walked up and down my estate and drank in the good fresh air.
"James!" I called to my head-gardener.
"What is it now?" he grumbled.
"Are there no daffodils, to take the winds of March with beauty?"
"There's these eleven croc——"
"But there should be daffodils, too. Is not this March?"
"It may be March, but 'tisn't the time for daffodils—not on three shillings a week."
"Do you only get three shillings a week? I thought it was three shillings an hour."