“What a spacious garden you appear to have here!” said Stapylton, who saw all the importance of a diversion to the conversation.
“It is a very much neglected one,” said Dill, pathetically. “My poor dear boy Tom used to take care of it when he was here; he had a perfect passion for flowers.”
Whether that Tom was associated in the Major's mind with some other very different tastes or not, Stapylton smiled slightly, and after a moment said, “If you permit me, I 'll take a stroll through your garden, and think over what we have been talking of.”
“Make yourself at home in every respect,” said Dill. “I have a few professional calls to make in the village, but we 'll meet at luncheon.”
“He's in the garden, Polly,” said Dill, as he passed his daughter on the stairs; “he came over here this morning to have a talk with you.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; he has got it into his head that you can be of service to him.”
“It is not impossible, sir; I think I might.”
“I'm glad to bear it, Polly; I'm delighted to see you take a good sensible view of things. I need not tell you he's a knowing one.”
“No, sir. But, as I have heard you card-players say, 'he shows his hand.'”