But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before.
"You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I think belongs to me," said Fleda, from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "My enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity."
Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed.
"Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, "that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?"
"It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, Miss Constance. The difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice."
"I have read of magicians," said Thorn, softly, bending down towards Fleda's work "who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them."
Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. It gave her courage to be silent, however; and Mr. Thorn's best efforts, in a conversation of some length, could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. A sudden pinch from Constance then made her look up, and almost destroyed her self-possession, as she saw Mr. Stackpole male his way into the room.
"I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said, approaching them.
"I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "since you venture into the region of broken windows again."
"Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair," said Mrs.
Evelyn, from the sofa.