“Now,” said I, “I’m going to build a rambler rose trellis along the south; there’s your red against the lavender of the far hills at sunset! But how shall the trellis be designed, and where shall the sundial be, and where the flower beds?”
The girl clapped her hands. “Oh, the fun of planning it all out from the beginning!” she cried. “My, but I envy you.”
“Please don’t envy; advise,” said I.
“Oh, I can’t. I don’t know anything about gardens.”
“But you know what you like! People always say that when they are ignorant, don’t they?”
“Don’t be nasty,” she replied, running down the plank from the terrace to the lawn, and walking out to the centre. “I’d have the sundial right in the middle, where it gets all the sun,” she said, “because it seems to me a dial ought to be in the natural focus point of the light. Then I’d ring it with flowers, some low, a few fairly tall, all bright colours, or maybe white, and the beds not too regular. Then, right in line with the door, I’d have an arch in the trellis so you could see through into the farm. Oh, I know! I’d have the trellis all arches, with a bigger one in the centre, and it would look like a Roman aqueduct of roses!”
“A Roman aqueduct of roses,” I repeated, my imagination fired by the picture, “walking across the end of my green lawn, with the farm and the far hills glimpsed beneath! ’Rome’s ghost since her decease.’ Miss Goodwin, you are a wonder! But can you build it?”
“No,” she sighed, “I can only give you the derivation of ’aqueduct’ and ’rose’.”
“Come,” said I, “we will consult Hard Cider.”
“Heavens!” she laughed. “Is that anything like Dutch courage?”