in turn, had produced on his thriftless host. At any rate,
there was no good reason why he should not find out.
He opened the door and went in.

The gardener barely looked up from his occupation,
and drew aside to let the newcomer pass with no sign
of a gesture toward his cap. Thorpe halted, and tried
to look at the pots on the staging as if he knew about
such things.

"What are you doing?" he asked, in the tentative tone
of one who is in no need of information, but desires
to be affable.

"Drying off the first lot of gloxinias," answered the other.
"Some people put 'em on their sides, but I like 'em upright,
close to the glass. It stands to reason, if you think
about it."

"Why, certainly," said Thorpe, with conviction.
In his mind he contrasted the independence of Gafferson's
manner with the practised servility of the stable-yard--
and thought that he liked it--and then was not so sure.
He perceived that there was no recognition of him.
The gardener, as further desultory conversation about his
work progressed, looked his interlocutor full in the face,
but with a placid, sheep-like gaze which seemed to be entirely
insensible to variations in the human species.

"How did you ever get back here to England?" Thorpe was