He opened the gate and she passed through.
May was a month that Eve had missed at Fernhill, and it was one of the most opulent of months, the month of rhododendrons, azaleas, late tulips, anemones, and Alpines. Never since last year’s roses had she seen such colour, such bushes of fire, such quiet splendour. It was a beauty that overwhelmed and silenced; Oriental in some of its magnificence, yet wholly pure.
The delicate colouring of the azaleas fascinated her.
“I never knew there were such subtle shades. What are they?”
“Ghents. They are early this year. Most people know only the old Mollis. There are such an infinite number of colours.”
“These are just like fire—magic fire, burning pale, and burning red, the colour of amber, or the colour of rubies.”
They wandered to and fro, Eve pointing out the flowers that pleased her.
“We think the same as we did last year—am I to know anything?”
She looked up at him quickly, with a quivering of the lashes.
“Oh, yes, if you wish it! But I am not a renegade.”