“Then she ought to have planted it herself—if she is going to be married.”
“On the first of July. They’ve fixed the day.”
“Oh,” said June. “Have you seen her young man?”
“He came to lunch yesterday.”
“Who is he?”
“The Honourable Barrington, a gentleman in the Blues.”
June frowned portentously. “I hope he’ll be good enough for her.” But she didn’t sound very hopeful.
“He’s a very nice gentleman.”
“Ought to be if he’s going to marry her. But what I should like to know is, why was she so set on you and me planting that myrtle when she ought to have planted it herself.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure, Miss June,” said the artist, not so much as glancing up from his work.