"Even supposing—just for the sake of argument—that I am a rabbit, I still have something up my sleeve; I'll come and eat your young carnations."
Belvane adored her garden, but she was sustained by the thought that it was only July just now. She pointed this out to him.
"It needn't necessarily be carnations," he warned her.
"I don't want to put my opinion against one who has (forgive me) inside knowledge on the subject, but I think I have nothing in my garden at this moment that would agree with a rabbit."
"I don't mind if it doesn't agree with me," said Udo heroically.
This was more serious. Her dear garden in which she composed, ruined by the mastications—machinations—what was the word?—of an enemy! The thought was unbearable.
"You aren't a rabbit," she said hastily; "you aren't really a rabbit. Because—because you don't woffle your nose properly."
"I could," said Udo simply. "I'm just keeping it back, that's all."
"Show me how," cried Belvane, clasping her hands eagerly together.
It was not what he had come into the garden for, and it accorded ill with the dignity of the Royal House of Araby, but somehow one got led on by this wicked woman.