“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Sloane, “but I am sure you have thoughts that are too beautiful to be put into words, on paper! They may pass from true friend to true friend—in the quiet of a friend’s garden. Among the flowers words may be spoken that printer’s ink would blur.”
Now Mr. Watkins felt that this dear old lady was trying to encroach upon his garden of thought, to wander down the paths of beautiful thoughts which were for his feet alone to travel. If any one in Bestways said beautiful things he surely was the one to do it, so he thought a moment, waved his hand, and smiling sadly murmured: “They come and go—lighter than air, finer than gossamer, ephemeral—butterflies—butterflies of thought, transparent—nebulous—”
“Moonshine!” said Mrs. Sloane, delighted to have found a word. If she had had less than ten thousand a year Watkins would have been very deeply pained. But as she was said to have rather more than that he was amused.
“You may want to sit in the garden—Miss Carston’s garden—again some day. Don’t let the briars grow over the path, or you may not find it again.”
“What does she mean?” thought Mr. Watkins, as he went on his way thinking sadly of Diana, who alone in Bestways had had the power to inspire him.
A little further on Mrs. Sloane met the curate. “Going to Miss Carston’s garden?” she asked.
“No, I wasn’t.” He stopped. “Do you think I ought? Would it be politic?” he asked.
And Mrs. Sloane told him he would be a bishop one day.
“That’s what you meant?” he asked.
“You are brighter than Mr. Watkins.”