"Oh, no, sir."
"But you exclaim 'God forbid' when I suggest that you might have to wheel your baby out in a perambulator."
This treachery to himself was more than Moxon could bear. He laid down the bag of snowdrop bulbs, leaving Dandy and me to finish the business by ourselves.
It is more than a week now since they were planted, and almost every day I see a fresh little green nose thrusting its way out of the mould. At first the joy of these discoveries was spoilt in a great measure by Moxon, who, when he came up with my tea in the morning, would announce the arrival of another crocus or another snowdrop with that same suppressed excitement as if he were telling me of an addition to the household.
"All right—all right, Moxon," I said testily, one morning. "I only want you to valet me, you needn't look after my garden."
That must have been a very early morning temper, or I should have laughed at the ridiculousness of calling a few window-boxes a garden. The fact of the matter is, I was jealous and, as I lay drinking my tea, I came to the conclusion that I was behaving like a dog in my own manger. The next morning, therefore, when Moxon came in with the tray, I asked him whether there had been a frost.
"Just slightly, sir," said he.
"Have they suffered at all?" I asked quickly.
"Have what suffered, sir?"
"The crocuses."