all right of course. She said it was an emblem of what was it?"
"Of marriage," said the artist with an air of innocent abstraction.
"Then she ought to have planted it herself—if she is going to be married."
"On the first of July. They've fixed the day."
"Oh," said June. "Have you seen her young man?"
"He came to lunch yesterday."
"Who is he?"
"The Honourable Barrington, a gentleman in the Blues."
June frowned portentously. "I hope he'll be good enough for her." But she didn't sound very hopeful.
"He's a very nice gentleman."
"Ought to be if he's going to marry her. But what I should like to know is, why was she so set on you and me planting that myrtle when she ought to have planted it herself."
"Don't know, I'm sure, Miss June," said the artist, not so much as glancing up from his work.
Once a Sawney always a Sawney. Perennially, it seemed, was she up against the relentless workings of that natural law. Marriage, money, commonsense, the really big things of life, meant so little to him compared with windmills and myrtles, and things of that kind. Like her beloved Miss Babraham, this dear and charming fellow was almost too good to be true, but day by day the conviction was growing upon her that he really did need somebody practical to look after him. And she was not alone in thinking so. Miss Babraham, who knew so much about everything, had already expressed that opinion to her quite strongly.
