He led the way past the barn to a farmyard, where hens were clucking and scratching and scraping in the sunshine; the deep double bass grunting of pigs came from the sties, by the low wall across which one could see the country stretching far away, the cotton fields, the woods, all hazed by the warmth of the afternoon.
“Let’s sit down and look at the garden,” said he, pointing to a huge log by the near wall—“and aren’t the convolvuluses beautiful?”
“Beautiful,” said Phyl, falling into the vein of the other. “And listen to the roses.”
“They grunt like that because it’s near dinner time—they’re pretty much like humans.” He took a cigarette case from his pocket and a cigarette from the case.
“You don’t mind smoking, do you?”
“Not a bit.”
“Have one?”
“I daren’t.”
“Maria Pinckney won’t know.”
“It’s not her—I smoked one once and it made me sick.”