"If I had," said I, "should I come and ask you when to plant them?"
He took no notice of my excellent reasoning. The smile of pity for my ignorance still lingered in his face.
"Well, you try," he continued. "See if yer can get 'em a foot 'igh—an' if there's a blossom on 'em, bring it ter me an' I'll give yer sixpence for it as a curiosity."
"You shouldn't throw your money about like that," said I. "It's extravagant of you. But I hope I shouldn't take advantage of it. You may see my blossom of sweet pea. In fact, I'll bring it down to you; but I wouldn't deprive you of your sixpence for the world."
At that he got cross. I was annoyed myself. It is one thing to be made aware of your ignorance and quite another to have it thrown back in your face. He knew by the tone in my voice that he had irritated me, thereby losing a possible customer. No doubt it was that which first ruffled his temper. He liked me no less for my chaffing allusions to his sixpence, and in a desperate effort to get even with me, he looked me up and down, assessing the possible value of my clothes. They were not my best, but probably he did not know that.
"Yer're very 'igh and mighty—aren't yer?" said he. "Sixpence is nuffin to you, is it? Why I could buy you up and not feel the weight of it gone out of me pocket."
"I'm sure you could," I replied. "I don't doubt that for a moment. But you must remember there's a little difference between us. I'm not for sale. You are."
Then, when I asked him if there was another place in the market where I could buy bulbs, he was too red in the face to answer me.
I suppose in a way I got the best of it. I had the last word, which is the victor's perquisite in these matters. But it left a strange feeling of dissatisfaction in my mind. For however much to the point my retort may have been, he knew more about flowers and gardens than I did, and since I have been to Ballysheen I have come to judge of people by their knowledge and love of the treasures that the earth brings forth. For all my smartness, I counted him a cleverer man than myself.
But it was not that only which made me heavy of heart as I walked away to find another seedsman; it was the information I had been given by my friend of the generous purse. I could not grow sweet peas in my window-boxes. For that matter, could I grow anything but a few bulbs, which for one year at least will blossom anywhere, since they feed upon themselves? And I had visions of eschscholtzias, cornflowers, asters, gypsophila—the Lord knows what—all names that I had heard Cruikshank make such frequent and easy use of—names which Bellwattle loved for ever to be rolling on her tongue. All these, then, I supposed would be denied me.