“Oh, that is a spiræa. A handsome one, is it not? Growing finely; it will soon cover the entire path.”
“I don’t mean that—”
“By the way,” I inquired, interrupting him, “have you any egg-plants to spare? Ours are not as successful as they ought to be.”
“Yes, yes; plenty. But I want to know why you have filled your garden—”
“Walk this way, if you please,” I again broke in. “There’s a remarkably pretty double Jacobœa that I should like to show you.”
“In a minute; but tell me first—”
“And our Lima beans, they are really remarkable; and such carrots and turnips, to say nothing of many other excellent vegetables.”
I was becoming a little incoherent, and not sticking to the absolute and naked truth, for Weeville was not to be moved. He stopped resolutely before a wonderful specimen of Datura, and said positively,
“Before I go any where else, I want to know what you call that?”
“Oh, that,” I replied, with affected indifference, “that is a Datura.”