THE YEAR’S HIGH NOON 
87 
I cannot, for my own part, picture sweethearts 
exchanging love tokens of zinnias in the scented twi¬ 
light, nor can I any the more forthshadow their pressed 
petals fluttering after the usual manner from the leaves 
of an ancient volume, years after, with any kind of 
effect. Certain flowers there are (and, maybe the 
sweetest) clothed in sentiment as with a garment, and 
to these one renders all due homage and affection. 
But it seems to me that there is quite a considerable 
amount of space in the garden, as in everyday life, for 
other sorts of poetry, and that if one confined one’s 
horticultural operations solely to the flowers approved 
by the conventions of romance, one’s borders might 
be dull indeed. 
Violets, lilies, roses, heliotrope, and the whole 
fragrant host hallowed by immemorial association— 
how poor the parterre would be without them. How 
yet immeasurably poorer without those multitudinous 
blossoms that stand for beauty of form or colour, or for 
both, and are ignored, and even upon occasion flouted, 
by the devout lover of the acknowledged flower of 
sentiment alone. I plucked my fairest pyrethrums once, 
and made of them a constellation of pearliest pinks, 
most milky whites, delicate amethysts, and glowing 
glints of coral and ruby when Eugenio was bidden to 
luncheon in the shade of the vine-wreathed pergola. 
In a pleasant, portly jar of ancient blue and white 
Delft they charmed, or so it seemed to me, ever so 
wisely. Clean as daisies and pure as porcelain of the 
tenderest pate^ they filled one soul with pride if not 
with glee. But my guest would have none of them. 
