Orrin appeared not to hear him.
"Or the Vale of Cashmere!" he went on, drawing in long breaths of perfume. "Here are
"'Timid jasmine buds that keep
Their odors to themselves all day,
But when the sunlight dies away
Let the delicious secret out—'
roses of Kathay and bulbuls—and Nourmahal!"
Roy looked at him over his shoulder.
"If you have pulled enough of Eunice's rare, early roses to pieces to satisfy your destructive proclivities, we will go in," he said, pleasantly.
Something in his friend's eye and tone disinclined him to pursue the theme. He could not suspect him of an intention to ridicule Jessie or her home, but he felt the absence of sympathy with his own mood.
"Are they hers?" asked the other, brushing the wasted leaves in an unheeded shower to the floor.
Roy paid no regard to the emphasis. He was strangely averse to talking about Jessie at that moment.
"They are," he said, leading the way to the house, Orrin treading on the scattered flakes of fragrance, to gain the door of the bower. "She is an able florist. There is not another garden like hers for many miles around."