"That subtle sweetness?" said Quimbleton, with unexpected drollery.
"Exactly," said Bleak. "That abounding and pervasive aroma—"
"That delicate bouquet—?"
"Quite so, that breath of myrrh—"
"That balmy exhalation—?"
Bleak wondered if this was a game. He tried valiantly to continue. "Precisely," he said, "That quintessence of—"
He could coerce himself no longer, and burst into a yell of laughter.
"Hush!" said Quimbleton, nervously. "Some one may be watching us. But the fragrance of the garden is something I am rather proud of. You see, I water the flowers with champagne."
"With champagne!" echoed Bleak. "Good heavens, man, you'll get penal servitude."
"Nonsense!" said Quimbleton. "The Eighteenth Amendment says that intoxicating liquors may not be manufactured, sold or transported FOR BEVERAGE PURPOSES. Nothing is said about using them to irrigate the garden. I have a friend who makes this champagne himself and gives me some of it for my rose-beds. If you spray the flowers with it, and then walk round and inhale them, you get quite a genial reaction. I do it principally to annoy Bishop Chuff. You see, he lives next door."