For the moment her consciousness had become merged and lost in the colours around her. She spoke to Canterton as though he were some impersonal spirit, the genius of the place, a mind and not a man.
“There must be hundreds of roses here.”
“Yes, some hundreds.”
“And the dark wall of that yew hedge shows up the colours.”
Canterton felt a curious piquing of his curiosity. The girl was a new creation to him, and she was strangely familiar, a plant brought from a new country—like and yet unlike something that he already knew.
He showed her Guinevere.
“How do you like this rose—here?”
Her consciousness returned from its voyage of wonder, and became aware of him as a man.
“Which one?”
“Here. It is the latest thing I have raised.”