"I believe I think Nature is the best artist of all."
"But would you let Nature have her own way entirely?"
"No more in the vegetable than I would in the moral world. She would grow weeds."
The quick clear sense and decision, in the eye and accent, were just what Eleanor did not want to cope with. She was silent. So were her two companions; for Julia was busy with a nosegay she was making up. Then Mr. Rhys turned to Eleanor,
"Julia said you had a question to ask of me, Miss Powle."
"Yes, I had,"—said Eleanor, colouring slightly and hesitating. "But you cannot answer it standing—will you come in, Mr. Rhys?"
"Thank you—if you will allow me, I will take this instead," said he, sitting down on one of the steps before the glass door. "What was the question?"
"That was the other day, when she brought in her ferns—it was a wish I had. But she ought not to have troubled you with it."
"It will give me great pleasure to answer you—if I can."
Eleanor half fancied he knew what the question was; and she hesitated again, feeling a good deal confused. But when should she have another chance? She made a bold push.