“My dear young lady,” he exclaimed, “up so early?” He held up forbiddingly a mould-covered palm. “I can't shake hands with you.”
Honora laughed.
“I couldn't resist the temptation to see your garden,” she said.
A gentle light gleamed in his blue eyes, and he paused before a trellis of June roses. With his gardening knife he cut three of them, and held them gallantly against her white gown. Her sensitive colour responded as she thanked him, and she pinned them deftly at her waist.
“You like gardens?” he said.
“I was brought up with them,” she answered; “I mean,” she corrected herself swiftly, “in a very modest way. My uncle is passionately fond of flowers, and he makes our little yard bloom with them all summer. But of course,” Honora added, “I've never seen anything like this.”
“It has been a life work,” answered Mr. Holt, proudly, “and yet I feel as though I had not yet begun. Come, I will show you the peonies—they are at their best—before I go in and make myself respectable for breakfast.”
Ten minutes later, as they approached the house in amicable and even lively conversation, they beheld Susan and Mrs. Robert standing on the steps under the porte-cochere, watching them.
“Why, Honora,” cried Susan, “how energetic you are! I actually had a shock when I went to your room and found you'd gone. I'll have to write Miss Turner.”
“Don't,” pleaded Honora; “you see, I had every inducement to get up.”