“Si, señor, saloon,” repeated Murella gravely, “and a grande saloon for beautiful flowers.”
“A conservatory, of course, though that will be superfluous,” he added, “in a country itself a hotbed for tropic bloom. Why not hanging gardens like those of Babylon?”
“Oh, beautiful!” clasping her little fingers in ecstasy.
“Very well,” looking into her face, pencil suspended.
“And a beautiful room for a you,” and she paused for a moment, “with, with what you call, wall like the sky before the sun a come, and morning glory flower go all around the top,” pointing to the frieze, “a like a your name, Señor Mia.”
Morning suddenly discovered something upon the toe of his boot, and the girl struggled on in very bad English, but with charming enthusiasm. She planned and he interpreted. They first laid out the grounds, availing themselves of the groves already planted by the Indians. They covered acres of ground with rare exotics, studding them with statuary in creamiest marble, chiseled from designs of their own, with a Psyche and Cupid to guard the main entrance to the park.
“What is that ting she a hold in her hand?”
“That is a torch,” explained Morning. “Psyche is the soul, and Cupid is love, and she is going in search of him.”
“And did she find a him?” archly questioned the girl.
“I think not,” said Morning, gloomily drawing forth a fresh sheet of paper.