"No, of course you haven't," he said. "Well, how are you?"
I said I was pretty well, and hoped he was. "Middling," he replied.
"Want more sun. Can't get my pears to market without more sun."
"It has been dull," I said.
"Splendid for planting out, my lad, but bad for ripening off. Well, how
are you?"
I said again that I was very well; and he looked at me thoughtfully, put
one end of a bit of matting between his teeth, and drew it out tightly
with his left hand. Then he began to twang it thoughtfully, and made it
give out a dull musical note.
"Seen my new pansies?" he said--"no, of course not," he added quickly;
"and I asked you before. Come and look at them."
He led me to a bed which was full of beautifully rounded,
velvety-petalled flowers.
"What do you think of them?" he said--"eh? There's a fine one,
_Mulberry Superb_; rich colour--eh?"
"They are lovely," I said warmly.
"Hah! yes!" he said, looking at me thoughtfully; "she liked white roses,
though--yes, white roses--and they are all over."
My lip began to quiver, but I mastered the emotion and he went on:
"Thought I should have seen you before, my lad. Didn't think I should
see you for some time. Thought perhaps I should never see you again.
Thought you'd be sure to come and say `Good-bye!' before you went.
Contradictions--eh?"
"I always meant to come over and see you, Mr Brownsmith," I said.
"Of course you did, my lad. Been damp and cold. Want more sun badly."
I said I hoped the weather would soon change, and I began to feel
uncomfortable and was just thinking I would go, when he thrust the piece
of matting in his pocket, and took up and began stroking one of the
cats.
"Ah! it's a bad job, my lad!" he said softly--"a terrible job!"