“No, of course you haven’t,” he said. “Well, how are you?”
I said I was pretty well, and hoped he was. “Middling,” he replied. “Want more sun. Can’t get my pears to market without more sun.”
“It has been dull,” I said.
“Splendid for planting out, my lad, but bad for ripening off. Well, how are you?”
I said again that I was very well; and he looked at me thoughtfully, put one end of a bit of matting between his teeth, and drew it out tightly with his left hand. Then he began to twang it thoughtfully, and made it give out a dull musical note.
“Seen my new pansies?” he said—“no, of course not,” he added quickly; “and I asked you before. Come and look at them.”
He led me to a bed which was full of beautifully rounded, velvety-petalled flowers.
“What do you think of them?” he said—“eh? There’s a fine one, Mulberry Superb; rich colour—eh?”
“They are lovely,” I said warmly.
“Hah! yes!” he said, looking at me thoughtfully; “she liked white roses, though—yes, white roses—and they are all over.”