“Why not?” cried Mrs Callcott in delight.
“So many. And isn’t it a pity to cut them?” This, rather wistfully, to the masculine silence of Jack.
“Oh no, they want cutting as they come, or the blooms gets smaller,” said Jack, masculine and benevolent.
“And scent!—they have scent!” cried Harriet, sniffing at her velvety bouquet.
“They have a little—not much though. Flowers don’t have much scent in Australia,” deprecated Mrs Callcott.
“Oh, I must show them to my husband,” cried Harriet, half starting from the fence. Then she lifted up her voice:
“Lovat!” she called. “Lovat! You must come. Come here! Come and see! Lovat!”
“Come. Come and see.”
This dragged the bear out of his den: Mr Somers, twisting sour smiles of graciousness on his pale, bearded face, crossed the verandah and advanced towards the division fence, on the other side of which stood his Australian neighbour in shirt-sleeves, with a comely young wife very near to him, whilst on this side stood Harriet with a bunch of pink and purple ragged dahlias, and an expression of joyous friendliness, which Somers knew to be false, upon her face.