Lucilla. And with that they came to the door. And even then, seeing Mr. Dix come to meet them and trying not to look at his new boots seemed to be the chief event of the day.
"I've sold eighteenpenny-worth of flowers," he announced joyously. "A woman who was going to a hospital. I couldn't leave the place, so I let her have the flowers out of the vase here—was that right?"
"Splendid!" said Jane. "Why, we hardly ever take anything on Monday—it's a glorious beginning!"
"You didn't either of you catch cold last night?" he hoped.
"More likely you," said Jane. "I'm afraid you were awfully uncomfortable here. No, don't be polite about it—because, of course, the truth's the truth. Have you been into the garden yet—by daylight, I mean?"
"Rather! It's a beautiful place—but . . . well . . . the sooner I get to work the better. Is there a scythe? Nothing short of that will make any sort of successful attack on your armies of docks and nettles."
"Those sort of things are in the toolshed among the lilacs beyond the summer-house. Of course, there might be a scythe there, but I've never seen one."
"Yes," he said, but still he lingered.
"Look here," he said quickly, looking out of the window over the cedar lawn, "you must just let me say 'thank you' once—I won't keep on saying it. I've been in London for months—all grey and black and grimy—everything greasy with being rubbed up against by the bent shoulders of unhappy people. And all the faces—anxious, worried, sad. And the noises—the screaming machines rushing about. The motor-vans begin at three in the morning. This morning the birds woke me. I was out in the garden by five. I'd almost forgotten what dawn was like in a green place."
He went out abruptly without looking at them. And they very carefully avoided looking at each other.
The morning seemed unusually long; there were no more sales. When they had swept and dusted the garden room
