Ambrose, awakened early by floods of California sunshine which invaded his room, rang the bell for his plum-coloured valet who prepared his bath and brought his breakfast. After he had dressed, feeling more light-hearted in spite of himself, he descended the grand staircase and strolled out into the deserted garden. It was very still save for the twittering of birds and the occasional distant moan of an automobile siren. The air was lighter than he had expected to find it in this semi-tropical climate.
Walking beyond the tubs of cacti and the palms, around a group of shrubbery, Ambrose was astonished to come upon an old-fashioned garden in which azure pyramids of larkspur kept company with balsam and geraniums. If, he thought wistfully, I could only remain alone here in this garden I would be happy and I could write again. Stories of my boyhood would recur to me. I should be able to work.
Almost immediately, indeed, such a story did arise in his mind: the story of Emma Flummerfelt and her dahlias. Emma Flummerfelt had been a familiar figure in his home village and he wondered why it
