"Oh, nothing. Please go on."
"I was about to say, you are already acquainted fairly well with the characteristics of these and other tribes. But the Umbelliferæ are, I believe, new to you. Umbelliferæ—umbel-bearing. One principal characteristic—the ovary inferior. You should remember this. Fruit dry and hard—not juicy. I think you comprehend now what the ovary is."
"The ovary?" Ethel was away at the Grange once more.
"The ovary. I believe you understand what is signified by the ovary of a flower," repeated indulgent Tom.
Ethel looked up vacantly, then sighed.
"Tom, I am busy. I can't be bothered with ovaries and things to-day," she said. "I have so much to do, and those long names are detestable."
Tom's face fell. He was thunderstruck. Never till this moment had Ethel allowed such a remark to escape. "I thought—I hoped—you had learnt to appreciate—" he faltered.
"I have tried—really I have—and I can't. I shall never appreciate putting beautiful things into stiff rows, and giving them long names. It isn't in me," said Ethel, her tone half petulant, half apologetic. "You must try your hand on somebody else."
"But,—" protested dismayed Tom. "But—" and he could say no more. After all these weeks of careful instruction, it was too much. Tom's whole course of thought was turned upside down by it. He found himself saying, with displeasure, "I imagined that you were a girl of sense."
"Oh no! Not botanical sense, Tom." Then she was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she looked up penitently. "Tom, you mustn't mind me. I'm worried, and it's of no consequence. Another day I'll try to listen. If only you will leave me in peace this afternoon, I'll be good afterwards, and I'll learn all about those horrid umbels. I will, really."