“The gardener did not cut the chrysanthemums,” Mrs. Galland said.  “That is why we had asters in the bowl at luncheon.  His deafness is really a cross, I never realized before what a companion one naturally makes of a gardener.”

“No, there’s no purpose in having a deaf gardener,” said Marta.  “Nature distributes her defects unintelligently.  Now, if we had dumb demagogues, deaf gossips, and steel that when it was being formed into a sword-blade or a gun would turn to putty, we should be much better off.  But we couldn’t let Feller go, could we?  He’s already made himself a fixture.  So few people would put up with his deafness!  He’s so desirous of pleasing and he loves flowers.”

“And Colonel Lanstron recommended him.  Except for his deafness he is a perfect gardener.  Of course he had to have some drawback, for complete perfection is impossible,” Mrs. Galland agreed.

The old straw hat that shaded the fringe of white hair had been hovering within easy approaching distance of the chrysanthemum bed ever since the whistle of the train that brought Marta home had been heard from the station.  Feller was watching Marta when she paused for a moment on the second terrace steps, enjoying the sweep of landscape anew with the freshness of a first glimpse and the intimacy of every familiar detail cut in the memory.  It was her landscape, famed in history, where history might yet be made.

His greeting was picturesque and effective.  With white head bared, he looked up from the chrysanthemums to her and back at them and up at her again, with a sort of covert comradeship in his eyes which were young, very young for such white hair, and held out his little pad and pencil.  She smiled approval and slowly worked out a “perfect” in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet before she took the proffered pencil and wrote: 

“I practised the deaf-and-dumb alphabet on the train.  I’m learning fast.  We’ve never had such chrysanthemums before.  Next year we shall have some irises—­just a few—­as fine as they have in Japan.  How’s your rheumatism?”

He had replaced the broad-brimmed hat over his brow and his lips were visible in a lingering smile as he read the message.

“Thank you, Miss Galland,” he said in his even monotone.  “You are very kind and I am very fortunate to find a place like this.  I already knew something about irises and I’ve been reading up on the subject.  We’ll try to hold our own with those little Japanese.  As for the rheumatism, since you are good enough to inquire, Miss Galland, it’s about the same.  My legs are getting old.  There are bound to be some kinks in them.”

“You select those to cut—­a great armful!” she slowly spelled out on her fingers, clapping her hands with a triumphant cry of “How’s that?” at the finish.

“Your time has come!  To the sacrifice!” he exclaimed to the flowers.