“That’s all right,” answered Mr. Crewe; “it doesn’t cost anything to look at flowers, that’s what they’re for.  Cost something to put ’em in.  I got that little feller Ridley to lay ’em out—­I believe I told you.  He’s just beginning.  Hello, Alice.”

“I think he did it very well, Humphrey,” said Miss Pomfret.

“Passably,” said Mr. Crewe.  “I told him what I wanted and drew a rough sketch of the garden and the colour scheme.”

“Then you did it, and not Mr. Ridley.  I rather suspected it,” said Mrs. Pomfret; “you have such clear and practical ideas about things, Humphrey.”

“It’s simple enough,” said Mr. Crewe, deprecatingly, “after you’ve seen a few hundred gardens and get the general underlying principle.”

“It’s very clever,” Alice murmured.

“Not at all.  A little application will do wonders.  A certain definite colour massed here, another definite colour there, and so forth.”

Mr. Crewe spoke as though Alice’s praise irritated him slightly.  He waved his hand to indicate the scheme in general, and glanced at Victoria on the stone bench.  From her (Austen thought) seemed to emanate a silent but mirthful criticism, although she continued to gaze persistently down the valley, apparently unaware of their voices.  Mr. Crewe looked as if he would have liked to reach her, but the two ladies filled the narrow path, and Mrs. Pomfret put her fingers on his sleeve.

“Humphrey, you must explain it to us.  I am so interested in gardens I’m going to have one if Electrics increase their dividend.”

Mr. Crewe began, with no great ardour, to descant on the theory of planting, and Austen resolved to remain pocketed and ignored no longer.  He retraced his steps and made his way rapidly by another path towards Victoria, who turned her head at his approach, and rose.  He acknowledged an inward agitation with the vision in his eye of the tall, white figure against the pines, clad with the art which, in mysterious simplicity, effaces itself.

“I was wondering,” she said, as she gave him her hand, “how long it would be before you spoke to me.”

“You gave me no chance,” said Austen, quickly.

“Do you deserve one?” she asked.

Before he could answer, Mr. Crewe’s explanation of his theories had come lamely to a halt.  Austen was aware of the renewed scrutiny of Mrs. Pomfret, and then Mr. Crewe, whom no social manacles could shackle, had broken past her and made his way to them.  He continued to treat the ground on which Austen was standing as unoccupied.

“Hello, Victoria,” he said, “you don’t know anything about gardens, do you?”

“I don’t believe you do either,” was Victoria’s surprising reply.

Mr. Crewe laughed at this pleasantry.

“How are you going to prove it?” he demanded.

“By comparing what you’ve done with Freddie Ridley’s original plan,” said Victoria.