For a little while that afternoon I watched Cruikshank bedding out his stocks. He has evidently been warned to be very careful what he says about my going. I gather that from the fact that he leaves the subject severely alone. It shows a discretion on his part which, while it may be the better part of valor, has an irritating way of defeating its own ends. I can imagine all they have been saying about Clarissa and myself, while Cruikshank, hiding his head under the sand of silence, is patting himself on the back in the belief that I cannot see all he knows.
It was thinking of this hidden head of his that made me ask him did his back not ache over the labors of a garden.
"When I began," said he, "I used to think I was an old man. I don't notice it now."
After a pause, during which he never stopped working, I inquired when the stocks would blossom.
"Late June—July—August—part of September."
It was saying just as little as he could, and I am not surprised, for all true gardeners hate interruption. It was saying so little, but, my heavens! it was saying so much. Late June—July—August—part of September. What abundant, what extravagant generosity! The only other living things in the world as generous as that are women.
"Do you remember walking round the Quad," said I, "and talking about women?"
He looked up quickly over his shoulder. Of course, the question was a startling one to him. He had not followed my train of thought.
"Why? Why?" he repeated.
I turned away on my heel.