"Who are the people, Mrs. Fraser?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily, "I have never inquired. I have shunned them always. Some of them called. I have their cards by me somewhere. But I never returned their visits."
"And I have some of their cards by me too; and I have never returned their calls. Such society as they offer does not suit me. Besides, I didn't come here for society."
"But you seek mine."
"I cannot help it," I said.
She left the gate. I thought she was going away. She picked a flower—a white rose, half budded—and brought it me.
"This is of my own planting," said she, applying the pearly petals to her delicate nostrils: "all the flowers that you see here are of my own planting."
"That bud should symbolise your life, Mrs. Fraser."
She opened wide her eyes.
"Why?" she asked.