Course, I'd been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow I hadn't got excited over it. This time it's different. Vee was goin' along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had come bouncin' in on us after a hard winter had something to do with our enthusiasm for gettin' out of town. You know how it is. For eleven months you're absolutely sure the city's the only place to live in, and you feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home. And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get that restless feelin', and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Vee harder than it did me. "Goody!" says she, when I tell her we're expected to go out Saturday noon and stay over until Monday mornin'. "It is real country out there, too, isn't it?" "Blamed near an hour away," says I. "Ought to be, hadn't it?" "I hope they have lilac bushes in bloom," says Vee. "Do you know, Torchy, if I lived in the country, I'd have those if nothing else. Wouldn't you?" "I expect so," says I, "though I ain't doped out just what I would do in a case like that. It ain't seemed worth while. But if lilacs are the proper stunt for a swell country place, I'll bet Mr. Robert's got 'em." By the time we'd been shot out to Harbor Hills station, though, I'd forgot whether it was lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley that Vee was particular about; for Mr. Robert goes along with us, and he's joshin' us about our livin' in a four-and-bath and sportin' a French chef. "Really," says he, "to live up to him you ought to move into a brewer's palace on Riverside Drive, at least." "Oh, Battou would be satisfied if I'd lease Madison Square park for him, so he could raise onions," says I. Which reminds Mr. Robert of something. "Oh, I say!" he goes on. "You must see my garden. I'm rather proud of it, you know." "Your garden!" says I, grinnin'. "You don't mean you've been gettin' the hoe and rake habit, Mr. Robert?" Honest, that's the last thing you'd look for from him, for until he got married about the only times he ever strayed from the pavements was when he went yachtin'. But by the way he talks now you'd think farmer was his middle name. "Now, over there," says he, after we've been picked up at the station by his machine and rolled off three or four miles, "over there I am raising a crop of Italian clover to plow in. That's a new hedge I'm setting out, too--hydrangeas, I think. It takes time to get things in shape, you see." "Looks all right to me, as it is," says I. "You got a front yard big enough to get lost in." Also the house ain't any small shack, with all its dormers and striped awnin's and deep verandas. But it's too nice an afternoon to spend much time inside, and after we've found Mrs. Robert, Vee asks to be shown the garden. "Certainly," says Mr. Robert. "I will exhibit it myself. That is--er--by the way, Gertrude, where the deuce is that garden of ours?"