“Good-morning,” she said.
“Oh, but wait.”
“Well?”
He searched desperately for something to say, anything to keep her there. Finally,—
“They’re looking well, aren’t they, the roses?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But—er—perhaps they need rain? Roses require a good bit of moisture, don’t they? I think I’ve read somewhere that—er—that——”
“Good-morning.” She turned away again, smiling deliciously when her back was towards him, and went quickly up the path.
“Good-morning,” he called regretfully. Then: