"If you worked among them the way I work, perhaps you could."
"I tell you I couldn't!"
"But they're so lovely." Her hand went out and touched a rose. "It's taken me years to perfect this one. You can't see in this light. But during the day—; why don't you ever come here during the day?"
"I don't know," he told her quite truthfully.
"During the day," she went on, "you ought to see it. It's yellow; almost gold. And its center—That's quite, quite pink with the very middle bit almost scarlet. I love this rose."
He thought then that he could smell the particular fragrance of the one rose permeating subtly through the odor of all those other flowers. She loved that yellow and gold and scarlet rose.
"Good heavens," he said, "do stop telling me how much you love your flowers!"
"If you were with them all the time—"
He did not let her finish.
"That's all you do, isn't it? Just care for your flowers all day long?"