"Well, dadda," said Billie amiably, "how are the crops?"
The man straightened himself. He was a nice-looking man of middle age, with the kind eyes of a friendly dog. He smiled genially, and started to put his pipe away.
Billie stopped him.
"Don't stop smoking on my account," she said. "I like it. Well, you've got the right sort of a job, haven't you! If I was a man, there's nothing I'd like better than to put in my eight hours in a rose-garden." She looked about her. "And this," she said with approval, "is just what a rose-garden ought to be."
"Are you fond of roses—missy?"
"You bet I am! You must have every kind here that was ever invented. All the fifty-seven varieties."
"There are nearly three thousand varieties," said the man in corduroys tolerantly.
"I was speaking colloquially, dadda. You can't teach me anything about roses. I'm the guy that invented them. Got any Ayrshires?"
The man in corduroys seemed to have come to the conclusion that Billie was the only thing on earth that mattered. This revelation of a kindred spirit had captured him completely. George was merely among those present.
"Those—them—over there are Ayrshires, missy."