“Jealousy,” he replied promptly.
Patricia looked surprised.
“Who are you jealous of?” she queried curiously.
“Nobody just this minute.” He threw a furtive glance in Polly’s direction, over the rose he was nipping again; but she was occupied with the tendrils of a vine that were wandering from their support.
“I wish we had some Lady Gay roses to cover our old bare piazza,” he broke out abruptly. “Yours are fine.” He looked admiringly towards the little cottage next door, now beautiful in its bloom and greenery.
“Hasn’t anybody bought your house yet, has there?” asked Patricia.
“No,” Polly answered, “not that we’ve heard of. Father says the price is too high.”
“Lucky for you,” remarked David. “And lucky for us, too,” he laughed. “I don’t know but Uncle David would want to sell out if you folks should leave.”
“Why don’t you have some roses?” questioned Polly, coming back to the flowers. She gazed up at the stately columns, free of living adornment, and decided the matter quickly.