They stood, or strolled at ease, by the railings, she within them, he holding his horse outside them. The tulips were adjudged, names taken, colours approved.
"You'll see mine," he said, "in ten days. Do you realise that?"
She was radiant. "I should think so. That has simply got to happen. Are you going to have other people there?"
"Vera," he said, "and her man, and I rather think Considine, her man's brother. Fat and friendly, with a beard, and knows a good deal about machines, one way and another. I want his advice about hydroplanes, among other things. You'll like him."
"Why shall I like him?"
"Because he's himself. He has no manners at all, only feelings. Nice feelings. That's much better than manners."
"Yes, I dare say they are." She thought about it. "There's a difference between manner and manners."
"Oh, rather. The more manner you have the less manners."
"Yes, I meant that. But even manners don't imply feelings, do they?"
"I was going to say, Never. But that wouldn't be true. You have charming manners: your feelings' clothes and a jolly good fit."