Peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks.
“They’re well enough,” he said; “but the slugs and snails torment ’em so.”
“I think they’re as pretty as can be,” said Lilac; “and that sweet you can smell ’em ever so far. We had some up yonder,” she added, with a nod towards the hills, “but they never had such blooms as yours.”
“Maybe you’d like a posy,” said Peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort.
Receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed.
The conversation having got on so far, Lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject.
“This is a nice, pretty corner to sit in,” she said; “but don’t the bees terrify you?”
Peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise.
“The bees!” he repeated.
He strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger.