Courtesy was characteristically still in bed. She never was one to hear the call of a singing world.
The gardener came in with eyes crinkled by the sun, and his hair standing up in a spirited way all over the top of his head. Did you know that it is possible to be a specialist in posing without giving thought to the appearance?
“You look as if you had been fighting,” snapped Mrs. Rust. “Disgraceful state of hair.”
“I wish I had,” replied the gardener. “I could fight beautifully at this moment. I never knew what it was to breathe until this morning.”
“Air is indeed a blessing” said the lady novelist. “I have a passion for air. I sometimes think I should die without it. How interesting to meet any one who loves fighting. You ought to be a soldier. I myself am a peace-loving woman, but I often have quarrels forced upon me.”
“Let me conduct them for you,” suggested the gardener, wrestling with his grape fruit. “Show me the enemy.”
“I wish I could. I think I will,” said the lady. “I came to Greyville to stay with a dear friend, and a young woman, of no standing whatever, picked up anyhow and anywhere, not only turned me out of my friend’s house, but now insists on my moving two of my trunks from the sick-room.”
“Oh, there is a sick-room, is there?”
“Yes, my friend’s little nephew is ill.”
“But didn’t your friend protest? Has the young woman a hypnotic power over her?”