“Some of them are that pale yellow kind, the colour of champagne. You can just see how they trail. Isn’t it funny how dark they are, and yet the colour’s there all the time, isn’t it? They are lovely in the day, lovely leaves and great big fruit, and in between are little squatty gooseberry bushes, all kinds, yellow and egg-shaped like plums, and little bright green round ones and every kind of the ordinary red kind. Do you know the little bright green ones, quite bright green when they’re ripe, like bright green Chartreuse?” “No. The green Chartreuse of course I know. But green ripe gooseberries I have not seen.” “I expect you only know the unripe green ones they make April fool of.” “April fool?” “I mean _gooseberry_ fool. Do you know why men are like green gooseberries?” “No. Why are they? Tell me.” “Perhaps you would not like it. We are passing the apple trees now; quarendens and stibbards.” “Tell me. I shall like what you say.” “Well, it’s because women can make fools of them whenever they like.” Max laughed; a deep gurgling laugh that echoed back from the wall in front of them. “We are nearly at the end of the garden.” “I think you would not make a man a fool. No?” “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” “You have not thought much about men.” “I don’t know.” “But they, they have thought about you.” “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know.” “You do not care, perhaps?” “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Here’s the coffin. I’m afraid it’s not very comfortable. It’s so low.” “What is it?” “It’s an overturned seedling box. There’s grass all round. I wonder whether it’s damp,” said Miriam suddenly invaded by a general uncertainty. “Oh, we will sit down, it will not be damp. Your future brother-in-law has not scrubbed also the ivy on the wall,” he pursued as they sat down on the broad low seat, “it will spoil your blouse.” Miriam leaned uncomfortably against the intervening arm. “Isn’t it a perfectly lovely night?” she said. “I feel that you would not make of a man a fool....” “Why not?” “I feel that there is no poison in you.” “What _do_ you mean?” People ... poisonous ... What a horrible idea. “Just what I say.” “I know in a way. I think I know what you mean.” “I feel that there is no poison in you. I have not felt that before with a woman.” “Aren’t women awful?” Miriam made a little movement of sympathy towards the strange definiteness at her side. “I have thought so. But you are not as the women one meets. You have a soul serene and innocent. With you it should be well with a man.” “I don’t know,” responded Miriam. “Is he telling me I am a fool?” she thought. “It’s true, but no one has the courage to tell me.”