The house was again as it ought to be--cut off forever
from Cecil's pretentious world.
He would find Miss Minnie down in the garden.
In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a Mozart Sonata. He
hesitated a moment, but went down the garden as requested. There
he found a mournful company. It was a blustering day, and the
wind had taken and broken the dahlias. Mrs. Honeychurch, who
looked cross, was tying them up, while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably
dressed, impeded her with offers of assistance. At a little
distance stood Minnie and the "garden-child," a minute
importation, each holding either end of a long piece of bass.
"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious what a mess everything
is! Look at my scarlet pompons, and the wind blowing your skirts
about, and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, and
then the carriage having to go out, when I had counted on having
Powell, who--give every one their due--does tie up dahlias
properly."
Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered.
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