more at the flowers and the trees and the grasses of the field, and less at his own cleverness. To let himself go out among the golden buds shaken by the wind, into the pine pollen, into the white clouds or the cups of the daffodils. Better than the marvels of science, than "wireless" or the latest aeroplane, or the bending of light, or the quantum theory. Flowers came to your feet. You could take the little quaint face of a pansy between your two fingers, and see the soul of it, the soul of all gentle, living things.
Thomas Roland, coming down about this time to spend a week-end at the old Pelican, and bringing Cherry with him in a blue car, found Sorrell at the beginnings of this most final phase.
"Come and see the violas. We have massed Royal Scott and Bullion together, with a few Bronze Purples here and there."
The crowsfeet about Tom Roland's eyes became more marked as he looked at Sorrell. Little crinkles of affection. So, Stephen had taken to gardening,—and when an Englishman of fifty develops a passion for flowers, one may infer that the leaves of the other passions have fallen.
Roland stood at gaze.
"Paradise regained, old man."
"Like it?"
"You pretty creatures! That's how I feel to pretty flappers—now—Stephen. We are growing old."
"If this is growing old"
"You don't mind?"
"Why should one?"
"Oh,—I don't know. To go under the grass when you are still full of music,—and the woman you love has no need to dye her hair. I'm always telling Cherry it is time that she began to find grey hairs."
"Is there any need?"
"Seems not. Why,—I don't know. Fellows, young fellows, round her like flies, damn them! Yet, she's one of those absurd creatures who seem to prefer the permanent adventure. We got married last month."
Sorrell was looking at his garden with the eyes of a lover.
"I'm glad. You two have had time to find out. Besides,—there's your music—and her voice."
