282 THE GARDEN OF A 



tice window, for below lies the moonlit garden, an 

 etching framed by trees. 



For a week past Evan and I have been wan- 

 dering in the garden of night, as we call it, and 

 continually meeting surprises in familiar places. 

 One of the alcoves in the border of the long walk 

 is filled with yellow evening primroses mingled with 

 the starry, long-tubed flowers of white tobacco 

 (nicotiana affinis\ Both of these open at sunset, 

 a time when sweet peas furl their butterfly wings 

 and many other plants contract both flower and 

 leaf; then all through the night they give forth the 

 fragrance that lures their insect lovers, so that 

 above them is a perpetual flight of moths, while 

 the blending of gold and silver under the moon- 

 spell defies description. The most gorgeous of red, 

 crimson, pink, blue, and purple flowers grow dark 

 at night in proportion to their daytime richness, 

 and it is to the light colours alone that the garden 

 then owes its beauty. 



Night before last we were wandering about the 

 garden, peering in corners where masses of holly- 

 hocks that had strayed without border bounds re- 

 flected moonlight from their disks, and great spiders 

 spread their webs across open spaces and hung in 

 waiting, savagely patient while the dew turned their 

 homespun into cloth of gold. 



