“But you didn’t.”
“Ah, but I did. That’s just it. I was certain you were there—I expected to find you in every hollow of the rocks. The place told me of you—it seemed to bear your mark. If I were an animal I should say that I could smell you there.”
He was amused. “You’re not far wrong. I was thereabouts. You might have smelt some of my deeds—Flowers—I grow ’em on those cliffs. You might have seen ’em.”
Her eyes were roundly open now—wonderfully—but she shook her head.
“No, no. I saw nothing of the sort. Do you mean—gardens?”
“Sort of gardens. I work those rocks. I plant things—they are natural rock gardens, those boulders. I started it some six or seven years ago—naturalizing alpines. I’ve got some good saxifrages to do there—androsaces of sorts—drabas, campanulas, columbines. Then I began on hybridizing—that last infirmity. There’s a scarlet thrift I’m trying—fine colour. It don’t always come true yet, but it’s a pretty thing—Armeria Senhusiana, if you please.”
Now she was inclined to be serious, with a confession to make. Hertha de Speyne had told her something of all this, and given her an interest in it. Mischief prevailed; she sparkled as she probed him.
“I don’t quite understand. You have a rock garden—you! I have remembered your scorn of property—of owning anything—and—! Really, I am rather shocked. A garden of yours!”
He looked blandly interested. “Mine? Bless you, no. I haven’t got a garden for these things. I grow ’em out there on the rocks. They’re anybody’s—yours, Tom’s, Harry’s. I’m only the gardener. And you prove to me that I know my business, because you must have been through my nursery half a dozen times—and saw nothing of it.”
“Nothing at all, I promise you.” Her share in his little triumph was manifest, she was intensely pleased. “That’s lovely,” she said—and then, “You know, if I had caught you out—I should have been awfully disappointed.”