In these circumstances he manifested a partiality for the company of Mr. Hartley that was a source of great embarrassment to that gentleman, whose work rapidly accumulated while he sat in his old office discussing a wide range of subjects, on all of which the junior partner seemed equally at home and inclined to air views of the most unorthodox description. He passed from topic to topic with bewildering facility, and one afternoon glided easily and naturally from death duties to insect powder, and from that to maggots in rose-buds, almost before his bewildered listener could take breath. From rose-buds he discoursed on gardening—a hobby to which he professed himself desirous of devoting such few hours as could be spared from his arduous work as a member of the firm.
"I hear that your garden is the talk of Salthaven," he remarked.
Mr. Hartley, justly surprised, protested warmly.
"That's what I heard," said Mr. Vyner, doggedly.
Mr. Hartley admitted that his borders were good. He also gave favourable mention to his roses.
"My favourite flower," said Mr. Vyner, with enthusiasm.
"I'll bring you a bunch to-morrow, if you will let me," said Mr. Hartley, rising and turning toward the door.
The other stopped him with outstretched hand. "No, don't do that," he said, earnestly. "I hate cutting flowers. It seems such a—a—desecration."
Mr. Hartley, quite unprepared for so much feeling on the subject, gazed at him in astonishment.
"I should like to see them, too," said Robert, musingly, "very much."