"They are evergreens--with large white flowers--very abundant and late in the season, but they need the shelter of a wall with us."
"I should think you would say 'with me'," said Fleda. "I cannot conceive that the head-quarters of the Rose tribe should be anywhere else."
"One of the queens of the tribe is there, in the neighbourhood of the Macartneys--the difficult Rosa sulphurea--it finds itself so well accommodated that it condescends to play its part to perfection. Do you know that?"
"Not at all."
"It is one of the most beautiful of all, though not my favourite--it has large double yellow flowers shaped like the Provence--very superb, but as wilful as any queen of them all."
"Which is your favourite, Mr. Carleton?"
"Not that which shews itself most splendid to the eye, but which offers fairest indications to the fancy."
Fleda looked a little wistfully, for there was a smile rather of the eye than of the lips which said there was a hidden thought beneath.
"Don't you assign characters to your flowers?" said he gravely.
"Always!"