About eleven o’clock Lavender, the foreman, appeared in the rosery, an alert, wiry figure in sun hat, rich brown trousers, and a blue check shirt. Lavender was swarthy and reticent, with a pronounced chin, and a hooked nose that was like the inquiring beak of a bird. He had extraordinarily deep-set eyes, and these eyes of his were the man. He rarely missed seeing anything, from the first tinge of rust on a rose, to the beginnings of American blight on a fruit tree. As for his work, Lavender was something of a fanatic and a Frenchman. Go-as-you-please dullards did not like him. He was too ubiquitous, too shrewd, too enthusiastic, too quick in picking out a piece of scamped work, too sarcastic when he found a thing done badly. Lavender could label everything, and his technical knowledge was superb. Canterton paid him five hundred a year, knowing that the man was worth it. Lavender came with a message, but he forgot it the moment he looked at the rose. His swarthy face lost all its reticence, and his eyes seemed to take fire under their overhanging eyebrows. He had a way of standing with his body bent slightly forward, his hands spread on the seat of his trousers, and when he was particularly interested or puzzled he rubbed his hands up and down with varying degrees of energy. “She’s out, sir!” “What do you think of her, Lavender?” The foreman bent over the rose, and seemed to inhale something that he found intoxicatingly pleasant. “You’ve got it, sir. She’s up above anything that has been brought out yet. Look at the way she’s opening! You can almost see the fire pouring out. It’s alive—the colour’s alive.” Canterton smiled. “Just like a little furnace all aglow.” “That flower ought to make the real people rave! It’s almost too good for the blessed public. Any pinky thing does for the public.” “I am going to send the second flower to Mr. Woolridge.” “He’ll go down on his knees and pray to it.” “So much the better for us. If anyone’s praise is worth hearing his is.” “He’s a wonder, sir, for a clergyman!” Lavender rubbed his trousers, and then suddenly remembered what he had come for. “There’s a lady, sir, in the office. Wants to know whether she may come into the nursery and do some painting.” “Who is she?” “Miss Carfax from Orchards Corner. I said I’d come and see you about it.” “Miss Carfax? I don’t remember.” “They’ve been there about a year. The mother’s an invalid. Quiet sort of woman.” “Oh, well, I’ll see her, Lavender.” “Shall I bring her here?” “Yes. I don’t want to leave the rose till I have seen the whole cycle. And Mrs. Canterton said she was sending one of the maids down to cut some roses.” Lavender went off, and returned in about five minutes with a girl in a straw hat and a plain white linen dress. He stood in one of the openings through the yew hedge and pointed out Canterton to her with a practical forefinger. “That’s Mr. Canterton over there.” She thanked him and walked on.