90 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



tion. Returning on a summer's afternoon from a 

 parochial walk, I inferred from wheel-tracks on my 

 carriage-drive that callers had been and gone. I 

 expected to find cards in the hall, and I saw that the 

 horses had kindly left theirs on the gravel. At that 

 moment one of those 



^ Grim spirits in the air, 

 Who grin to see us mortals grieve, 

 And dance at our despair/ 



fiendishly suggested to my mind an economical 

 desire to utilise the souvenir before me. I looked 

 around and listened ; no sight, no sound of humanity. 

 I fetched the largest fire-shovel I could find, and 

 was carrying it bountifully laden through an arch- 

 way cut in a high hedge of yews, and towards a 

 favourite tree of ' Charles Lefebvre,' when I suddenly 

 confronted three ladies, ^ who had sent round the 

 carriage, hearing that I should soon be at home, 

 and were admiring my beautiful Roses.' It may be 

 said, with the strictest regard to veracity, that they 

 saw nothing that day which they admired, in the 

 primary meaning of the word, so much as myself 

 and fire-shovel ; and I am equally sure that no Rose 

 in my garden had a redder complexion than my 

 own. 



And now, to be practical, what do I mean by 



