ii6 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



Hps which I have not dared to utter. I remember 

 sitting on a summer's eve contemplating my Roses in 

 the soft hght of the setting sun, and in the society 

 of a sentimental friend, more than ever sentimental 

 because a daughter of the gods, divinely fair, had 

 just left us for the house. We sat still and pensive, 

 until at last I broke a long silence with the 

 involuntary exclamation, ^ Aren't they lovely ? ' 

 * Lovely ! ' he replied ; ^ I hate 'em. She called that 

 Due de Rohan a duck, and that Senna Tea Vaisse, 

 or whatever his name is ' (he knew it as well as I did), 

 *a darling. I tell you what, old fellow, if either of 

 these worthies could appear in the flesh, there is 

 nothing in the world I should like so much as a tete- 

 a-tete with him in a 24-foot ring. I flatter myself 

 that I could favour him with a facer which he couldn't 

 obtain in France. As for that General Jacqueminot, 

 shouldn't I like to meet him in action ' — here he 

 pulled his moustache fiercely — * and to roll him over 

 on Rupert ? ' (his charger). I bade him light a weed 

 and hope ; but he didn't seem to relish hoping. 

 Towards the end of the next summer he came to 

 see me again, with the daughter of the gods in his 

 brougham, and, on the opposite side, in the lap of its 

 nurse, a new ^ duck,' far dearer to his bride than any 

 rosebud on earth. 



The inner walks should be grass, but there must 



