He waited intent on the unsuspicious answer:
“They are basil-thyme, signore—little boudoir delicacies, which we cultivate for their scent. They will be very popular with the ladies when they flower.”
“When will they flower?”
Aquaviva hunched his shoulders.
“Who can say? It may be this year or the next. They are capricious, and fastidious, but fat feeders when they like. Sometimes they like, and sometimes they do not. These have all had their christening.”
“How do you mean their christening?”
Aquaviva leered round, with puckered lids, as he stooped.
“Blood, signore—good bullock’s blood. They thrive on it.”
“Will they not flower without?”
“They will flower; but it is all the difference between the weed and the exotic. So it is with human folks. We talk of blood in a man. It signifies nothing but generations of meat-eating, as against the minestra, the cabbage-soup, which the many, the nameless, have had to be content with for the replenishing of their veins.”