"Get away, sir," he said; "you've had enough, sir. Get away, sir."

Having reached a gravel walk that diverged from the pavement, he
turned off and went over to a rose-bush and walked around tapping
the roses on their heads as he counted them--cloth-of-gold roses.
"Very well done," he said, "a large family--a good sign."

Thus he loitered along his way with leisure to enjoy all the chance
trifles that gladdened it; for he was one of the old who return at
the end of life to the simple innocent things that pleased them as
children.

She had risen and advanced to the edge of the veranda.

"Did you come to see me or did you come to see my flowers?" she
called out charmingly.

"I came to see the flowers, madam," he called back. "Most of all,
the century plant: how is she?"

She laughed delightedly: "Still harping on my age, I see."

"Still harping, but harping your praises. Century plants are not
necessarily old: they are all young at the beginning! I merely
meant you'd be blooming at a hundred."

"You are a sly old fox," she retorted with a spirit. "You give a
woman a dig on her age and then try to make her think it a
compliment."