“Did you hear that, Martha?” interposed Mrs. Rick-etts. “Mr. Dalton very wisely remarks that man is of all lands, while the inferior productions of nature require their native soils as a condition of existence.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dalton, fathering the sentiment at once; “'tis only the blacks that can't bear the cowld. But, after all, maybe they 're not the same as ourselves.”
“I own I never could think them so,” smiled Mrs. Rick-etts, as though the very appearance of Peter Dalton had confirmed the prejudice.
“Faix! I'm glad to hear you say that,” said he, delightedly. “Tis many's the battle Nelly and me has about that very thing. There's the villa, now—what d' ye think of it?”
“Charming—beautiful—a paradise!”
“Quite a paradise!” echoed Martha.
“'T is a mighty expensive paradise, let me tell you,” broke in Peter. “I've a gardener, and four chaps under him, and sorrow a thing I ever see them do but cut nosegays and stick little bits of wood in the ground, with hard names writ on them; that's what they call gardening here. As for a spade or a hoe, there's not one in the country; they do everything with a case-knife and watering-pot.”
“You amaze me,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who was determined on being instructed in horticulture.
“There's a fellow now, with a bundle of moss-roses for Nelly, and there's another putting out the parrot's cage under a tree,——that's the day's work for both of them.”
“Are you not happy to think how your ample means diffuse ease and enjoyment on all round you? Don't tell me that the pleasure you feel is not perfect ecstasy.”