“Gardener—he! He's a botcher. He measures his melons by the pound. It's money he wants, money-value. So much dung—so much meat. He says, 'Be careful, you, of the water-pot; go steady with your syringe. You'll damp off those plants it you're not handy,' he tells me. To me, this! Don't I know what the life of a plant must have, and how, and where it must be fed? He's an old fool, and you know it. And I'll not be told things I have got by heart before a lad new to his breeches. Besides,” he added darkly, “he'd vexed me before that, and bitterly.”
“How did he vex you?” Miss Percival's voice came cool and clear, but commanding.
“That I cannot tell you,” said he.
“But I want to know.” This seemed to her sufficing reason.
But he was dogged. “Then I can't help you. You cannot be told.”
“But perhaps I ought to be told. Do you think I ought?”
“Indeed, I don't know.”
“Well, will you tell me?”
“I will not, indeed. That is, I cannot.”
“It's very extraordinary.”