"I don't make a bower of my room, but I am exceedingly fond of growing
flowers, of watching their ways. There is nothing unmanly in that:
it has been the amusement of philosophers, of statesmen in retirement;
even I think of great captains."

"I suppose you know you can sell them--those you don't use,"
Miss Bordereau went on. "I daresay they wouldn't give you
much for them; still, you could make a bargain."

"Oh, I have never made a bargain, as you ought to know.
My gardener disposes of them and I ask no questions."

"I would ask a few, I can promise you!" said Miss Bordereau;
and it was the first time I had heard her laugh.
I could not get used to the idea that this vision of pecuniary
profit was what drew out the divine Juliana most.

"Come into the garden yourself and pick them; come as often
as you like; come every day. They are all for you,"
I pursued, addressing Miss Tita and carrying off this
veracious statement by treating it as an innocent joke.
"I can't imagine why she doesn't come down," I added,
for Miss Bordereau's benefit.

"You must make her come; you must come up and fetch her,"
said the old woman, to my stupefaction. "That odd thing you
have made in the corner would be a capital place for her to sit."

The allusion to my arbor was irreverent; it confirmed the impression I
had already received that there was a flicker of impertinence in Miss