“Very well, I’ll come in for a while.”
The old man opened the gate, shut it again, and they went down the long gallery. At the end of it, after climbing two steps, they came into the garden. It was large and beautiful: the walls were hidden by the fan-shaped foliage of the orange and lemon trees. Close-trimmed myrtles lined the walks, and underfoot, yellow and green moss carpeted the stones.
“I have taken care of this garden for fifty years,” said the man.
“Caramba!”
“Yes; I began to work here when I was eight or ten years old. It is rather neglected now, for I can’t do much any more.”
“Why are those orange trees in the centre so tall?”
“Orange trees grow taller when they are shut in like that than they do in the country,” answered the gardener.
“And what do you do with so many oranges?”
“The master gives them away.”
At one end of the garden was a rectangular pool. On one of its long sides rose a granite pedestal adorned with large, unpolished urns which were reflected in the greenish and motionless water.