“I thought,” said her master, gazing steadily at the window, “I thought somebody was inquiring for me.” “Well, there hasn’t been,” said Rosa. Mr. Hartley, with a magisterial knitting of the brows, which had occasionally been found effective with junior clerks, affected to ponder. “I—I thought I heard a man’s voice,” he said at last. “Nobody’s been inquiring for you,” said Rosa calmly. “If they did I should come in and let you know. Nobody’s been for you that I’ve heard of, and I don’t see how they could come without me knowing it.” “Just so,” said Mr. Hartley. “Just so.” He turned to the mantelpiece for his tobacco-jar, and Rosa, after standing for some time at the “ready” with a hostile stare, cleared her throat noisily and withdrew. The voices in the kitchen broke out with renewed vehemence; Mr. Hartley coughed again—a cough lacking in spirit—and, going out at the front door, passed through the side-entrance to the garden and tended his plants with his back to the kitchen window. Hard at work at the healthful pastime of weeding, his troubles slipped from him. The path became littered with little tufts of grass, and he was just considering the possibility of outflanking the birch-broom, which had taken up an advantageous position by the kitchen window, when a young man came down the side-entrance and greeted him with respectful enthusiasm. “I brought you these,” he said, opening a brown leather bag and extracting a few dried roots. “I saw an advertisement. I forget the name of them, but they have beautiful trumpet-shaped flowers. They are free growers, and grow yards and yards the first year.” “And miles and miles the second,” said Mr. Hartley, regarding them with extraordinary ferocity. “Bindweed is the name, and once get it in your garden and you’ll never get rid of it.” “That wasn’t the name in the advertisement,” said the other, dubiously. “I don’t suppose it was,” said Hartley. “You’ve got a lot to learn in gardening yet, Saunders.” “Yes, sir,” said the other; “I’ve got a good teacher, though.” Mr. Hartley almost blushed. “And how is your garden getting on?” he inquired. “It’s—it’s getting on,” said Mr. Saunders, vaguely. “I must come and have a look at it,” said Hartley. “Not yet,” said the young man, hastily. “Not yet. I shouldn’t like you to see it just yet. Is Miss Hartley well?” Mr. Hartley said she was, and, in an abstracted fashion, led the way down the garden to where an enormous patch of land—or so it seemed to Mr. Saunders—awaited digging. The latter removed his coat and, hanging it with great care on an apple tree, turned back his cuffs and seized the fork. “It’s grand exercise,” said Mr. Hartley, after watching him for some time. “Grand,” said Mr. Saunders, briefly. “As a young man I couldn’t dig enough,” continued the other, “but nowadays it gives me a crick in the back.” “Always?” inquired Mr. Saunders, with a slight huskiness. “Always,” said Mr. Hartley. “But I never do it now; Joan won’t let me.”