“You have the most wonderful flowers in the world in California, and you know it!” she replied severely; “and you’ve let me show you these poor little things as if—as if they were anything at all in comparison! I forgot you came from California.”
“Maybe we didn’t tell you,” offered Laurie. “Anyway, your flowers—”
“In California they have hedges of geraniums and roses climb right over the houses, and orange-trees and palms and everything,” interrupted Polly, breathlessly. “Why, this garden must seem perfectly—perfectly awful to you!”
“Don’t you believe it!” denied Ned. “Flowers and things do grow bigger, I suppose, out our way; but they aren’t a bit prettier, are they, Laurie?”
“Not so pretty,” answered the other, earnestly. “Besides, I never saw a geranium hedge in my life. Maybe they have them in some places, like Pasadena, but there isn’t one in Santa Lucia, honest. There isn’t, is there, Ned?”
“I never saw one. And palms aren’t awfully pretty. They get sort of scraggly-looking sometimes. Honest, Polly, I never saw a garden any prettier and cuter than this is. Of course, some are bigger and—and more magnificent—”
“Who wants a magnificent garden?” demanded Laurie, scornfully. “What have you got in the box, Polly?”
Comforted, Polly smiled again. “That’s Antoinette,” she said. “Come and see.”
Antoinette lived in a wooden box in the shelter of the porch, and had long ears and very blue eyes and a nose that twitched funnily when they approached. In short, Antoinette was a fluffy smoke-gray rabbit. “She has a dreadfully long pedigree,” said Polly, as she took Antoinette out and snuggled her in her arms.
“Has she?” murmured Laurie. “I thought it looked rather short.”