“Good-morning.” She gave a polite little inclination of her head and Burton removed his hat.
“Good-morning,” he answered dejectedly.
She went on towards the house, humming softly. He watched until the door had closed behind her; then he threw himself in his chair again and looked smilingly at the faded, bedraggled cluster of tiny crimson roses in his hand.
“She’s wonderful,” he said under his breath. “She’s a real Princess, after all, a little five-foot-two Princess, with the most beautiful eyes in the world and the dearest red lips and the pearliest, softest cheeks ever woman had! She’s older than I thought; she must be twenty-one or two. I wonder—but, no, she’s not married; she’s just a girl—a sweet, womanly girl.”
He placed a cigarette between his lips but forgot to light it.
“Kitty,” he murmured, “Kitty, Kitty of the Roses! Never was there a name that fitted as that does; she could have had no other name! Maud—Alice—Mary—Lilian—Florence—none would have suited her; Kitty was made for her! It never struck me before as being a beautiful name—Kitty. I wonder why? It’s absolutely musical! It’s a poem, a love-song! It’s——”
He sat up very straight and scowled at the littered table.
“Great Scott! this won’t do! These Enchanted Gardens are dangerous places; they evidently affect the brain.”
He rescued his pen from the grass and dipped it into the ink.