He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which he was soon amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he remained a good surgeon, cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, for the man was fond of his roses. And knowing this Stephen must play on that fondness, since now it was her business to cajole him into friendship. A degrading business, but it had to be done for Angela’s sake, lest she suffer through loving. Unthinkable that—‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’ ‘Ralph, look here;’ she called, ‘Mrs. John Laing’s got broken! We may be in time if we bind her with bass.’ ‘Oh, dear, has she?’ He came hurrying up as he spoke, ‘Do go down to the shed and get me some, will you?’ She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-cheeked, full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing. ‘There,’ he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage, ‘that ought to set your leg for you, madam!’ Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praised her luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: ‘He likes one to praise his roses.’ He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: ‘She’s a beauty! There’s something so wonderfully cool—as you say, it’s the whiteness—’ Then before he could stop himself: ‘She reminds me of Angela, somehow.’ The moment the words were out he was frowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki. But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared: ‘I’ve spent over three hundred,’ he said proudly, ‘never saw such a mess as this garden was in when I bought the place—had to dig in fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn’t cost much because they’re out of fashion. But I like them, they’re small but rather distinguished I think—there’s something so armorial about them.’ She agreed: ‘Yes, I’m awfully fond of them too;’ and she listened quite gravely while he explained that they dated as far back as the Wars of the Roses. ‘Historical, that’s what I mean,’ he explained. ‘I like everything old, you know, except women.’ She thought with an inward smile of his newness. Presently he said in a tone of surprise: ‘I never imagined that you’d care about roses.’ ‘Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come over to-morrow and see them?’ ‘Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?’ he inquired. ‘I think so.’