"Good," she said.
"Eh?"
"To feel inadequate is the beginning of wisdom; is it not so? There, I have gathered my bunch."
"May I beg one foxglove for my coat?"
She laughed.
"There are plenty all round you. Why, you are standing in the middle of a plant at this moment."
The poet stooped a little disconsolately, and plucked a stalk, and when he looked up Miss Gerald was already threading her way through the slender trunks.
"Good-bye," she cried, gaily, over her shoulder, and the poet raised his hat.
As he sauntered back to the path the doctor rode by on his pony.