"Why don't you live like that, then?" she asked. "Cruikshank does. I don't think he'd care if the house fell to the ground to-morrow."
"So long as his garden was not destroyed," I suggested.
"No, he wouldn't mind if his garden was ruined, too. It's making a garden he likes. Building his nest afresh, I suppose. There's a little cottage up behind the farm that belongs to us. It stands in a hollow on the cliffs. I'll show it you one day. He's going to make a garden there. If he were shipwrecked on a desert island, he'd begin the next day to choose a site. Is it site? How do you spell it? S-i-g-h-t?"
"It can be spelt that way," said I.
"Well, it's very silly," she continued. "I should have spelt it c-i-t-e. Can't see what they want the g-h for. But that's what he'd do anyhow—look out for a site for his garden, the very next day."
"And if you were shipwrecked with him," I asked, "what would you do?"
"Would there be any animals on the island?" she inquired.
"Most likely—little monkeys, parrots."
"Little monkeys! I should be all right. Besides, there's Cruikshank. When he's making a garden he's just too sweet for anything. He talks about it as if he was building a city, and we make out where all the flowers are going to live. It's like being God in little—making the whole world over again."
"He described it like that to me once."