Come; I will show you. Yes; carnations."

As he spoke he turned and opened the door behind him. It led out to a
small terrace no larger than a verandah, and every inch of earth was
occupied by the pale green of carnation-spikes. Some were budding, some
in bloom. But there was not a flower among them at which a modern
gardener would not have laughed aloud. And there were tears in Lory de
Vasselot's eyes as he looked at them.

The father stood, jerking his head and looking at his son, waiting his
verdict.

"Yes," was the son's reply at last; "yes--very pretty."

"But to-night you cannot see them," said the old man, earnestly.
"To-morrow morning--we shall get up early, eh?"

"Yes," said Lory, slowly; and they went back into the little windowless
room.

"We will get up early," said the count, "to see the pinks. This cursed
mistral beats them to pieces, but I have no other place to grow them. It
is the only spot that is not overlooked by Perucca."

He spoke slowly and indifferently, as if his spirit had been bleached,
like his face, by long confinement. He had lost his grip of the world and
of human interests. As he looked at his son, his black eyes had a sort of
irresponsible vagueness in their glance.

"Tell me," said Lory, gently, at length, as if he were speaking to a