"Do you play croquet?" asked Quimbleton, showing a neat pattern of
white hoops fixed in the shaven turf. "If so, we must have a game
after supper. It's very agreeable as a quiet relaxation."

Mr. Bleak was still trying to get his bearings. To see this robust
creature gravely counterfeiting the posture of extreme old age was
almost too much for his gravity. There was a bizarre absurdity in
the solemn way Quimbleton beamed out from his frosty and
fraudulent shrubbery. Something in the air of the garden, also,
seemed to push Bleak toward laughter. He had that sensation which
we have all experienced--an unaccountable desire to roar with
mirth, for no very definite cause. He bit his lip, and sought
rigorously for decorum.

"Upon my soul," he said, "This is the most fragrant garden I ever
smelt. What is that delicious odor in the air, that faint perfume--?"

"That subtle sweetness?" said Quimbleton, with unexpected
drollery.

"Exactly," said Bleak. "That abounding and pervasive aroma--"

"That delicate bouquet--?"

"Quite so, that breath of myrrh--"

"That balmy exhalation--?"

Bleak wondered if this was a game. He tried valiantly to continue.
"Precisely," he said, "That quintessence of--"