“Yes, gardening was always a hobby of mine,” he was saying, “and in the regiment they used to call me Adam. The grand old gardener, you know, as Tennyson says. Not that there was ever anything grand about me.”
Mrs. Evans’ mouth quivered into a little smile.
“Nor old, either, Major Ames,” she said.
Major Ames put down the glass of champagne he had just sipped, in order to give his loud, hearty laugh.
“Well, well,” he said, “I’m pretty vigorous yet, and can pull the heavy garden roller as well as a couple of gardeners could. I never have a gardener more than a couple of days a week. I do all the work myself. Capital exercise, rolling the lawn, and then I take a rest with a bit of weeding, or picking a bunch of flowers for Amy’s table. Weeding, too—
‘An hour’s weeding a day
Keeps the doctor away.’
I defy you to get lumbago if you do a bit of weeding every morning.”
Again a little shy smile quivered on Millie Evans’ mouth.
“I shall tell my husband,” she said. “I shall say you told me you spend an hour a day in weeding, so that you shouldn’t ever set eyes on him. And then you make poetry about it afterwards.”
Again he laughed.