88 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
That was not, he said, his idea of a flower. Flowers 
stood somehow for something different in his imagina¬ 
tion. The colours were indisputably good, but no— 
there was a lack; a something, in fact, that fixed a 
great gulf between his sympathies and my enthusiasm. 
What, oh what, does his garden grow? I should 
like well to see Eugenio’s garden. 
There is Preciosa, again, who will have no truck 
with any but single flowers; the only double blossom 
that she can by any means endure is a rose, and, even 
so, she is for ever regretting that the simple, heraldic 
Tudor rose does not reign alone. The abounding riot 
of colour in my broad borders is almost painful to her, 
I know. 
Springtime is the best season for her visits; I have 
so many more single flowers then, and it is quite possible 
to divert her somewhat abstracted gaze from my full- 
frocked phoenixes and daffydowndillies as we pass. 
Felicia, on the other hand, is the easiest creature 
in the world to please; to her gentle heart every flower 
that blows is kindly welcome. There have even been 
occasions when—for she has no garden of her own—I 
have discovered her delicate old Nankin vases and frail 
Venetian goblets decked out with trails of almond- 
scented wild convolvulus, white and green-flecked shep¬ 
herd’s purse, and innocent blue-eyed speedwell, to say 
nothing of light tall fronds of wayside grasses. 
In her kind sight I am the soul and essence of 
reckless generosity, because at this season of the year I 
am apt to turn her adrift, scissors in hand, amid my 
frail-garlanded aisles and islands of the many-hued 
