William decided to bring her syringa, handfuls of syringa, armfuls of syringa.
He went straight home to the gardener.
“No, I ain’t got no syringa. Please step off my rose-bed, Mister William. No, there ain’t any syringa in this ’ere garding. I dunno for why. Please leave my ’ose pipe alone, Mister William.”
“Huh!” ejaculated William, scornfully turning away.
He went round the garden. The gardener had been quite right. There were guelder roses everywhere, but no syringa.
He climbed the fence and surveyed the next garden. There were guelder roses everywhere, but no syringa. It must have been some peculiarity in the soil.
William strolled down the road, scanning the gardens as he went. All had guelder roses. None had syringa.
Suddenly he stopped.
On a table in the window of a small house at the bottom of the road was a vase of syringa. He did not know who lived there. He entered the garden cautiously. No one was about.
He looked into the room. It was empty. The window was open at the bottom.