She laughed. "But it doesn't suit your hair," she suggested.
He met her sally gravely.
"It is my favourite flower," he returned.
"Since when, pray?"
"Since—since a half-hour ago."
He stooped and picked up his knife from the grass.
"Are you going away?" he asked, "or shall you stay here always?"
"Always," she promptly returned. "I'm going to live here with this old garden until I grow to be an ancient dame—and you may walk over on autumn afternoons and I'll be sympathetic about your rheumatism. Isn't that a picture that delights your soul?"
"No," he said bluntly; "I see a better one."
"Tell me."