Tulips, narcissus, hyacinths, and other bulbs were entirely out of bloom, but the earlier herbaceous borders had come into flower, and he passed through masses of pink and ivory-tinted peonies—­huge, heavy, double blossoms, fragrant and delicate as roses.  Patches of late iris still lifted crested heads above pale sword-bladed leaves; sheets of golden pansies gilded spaces steeped in warm transparent shade, but larkspur and early rocket were as yet only scarcely budded promises; the phlox-beds but green carpets; and zinnia, calendula, poppy, and coreopsis were symphonies in shades of green against the dropping pink of bleeding-hearts or the nascent azure of flax and spiderwort.

In the rose garden, and along that section of the wall included in it, the rich, dry, porous soil glimmered like gold under the sun; and here Selwyn discovered Nina and Eileen busily solicitous over the tender shoots of favourite bushes.  A few long-stemmed early rosebuds lay in their baskets; Selwyn drew one through his buttonhole and sat down on a wheelbarrow, amiably disposed to look on and let the others work.

“Not much!” said Nina.  “You can start in and ‘pinch back’ this prairie climber—­do you hear, Phil?  I won’t let you dawdle around and yawn while I’m pricking my fingers every instant!  Make him move, Eileen.”

Eileen came over to him, fingers doubled into her palm and small thumb extended.

“Thorns and prickles, please,” she said; and he took her hand in his and proceeded to extract them while she looked down at her almost invisible wounds, tenderly amused at his fear of hurting her.

“Do you know,” she said, “that people are beginning to open their houses yonder?” She nodded toward the west:  “The Minsters are on the way to Brookminster, the Orchils have already arrived at Hitherwood House, and the coachmen and horses were housed at Southlawn last night.  I rather dread the dinners and country formality that always interfere with the jolly times we have; but it will be rather good fun at the bathing-beach. . . .  Do you swim well?  But of course you do.”

“Pretty well; do you?”

“I’m a fish.  Gladys Orchil and I would never leave the surf if they didn’t literally drag us home. . . .  You know Gladys Orchil? . . .  She’s very nice; so is Sheila Minster; you’ll like her better in the country than you do in town.  Kathleen Lawn is nice, too.  Alas!  I see many a morning where Drina and I twirl our respective thumbs while you and Boots are off with a gayer set. . . .  Oh, don’t interrupt!  No mortal man is proof against Sheila and Gladys and Kathleen—­and you’re not a demi-god—­are you? . . .  Thank you for your surgery upon my thumb—­” She naively placed the tip of it between her lips and looked at him, standing there like a schoolgirl in her fresh gown, burnished hair loosened and curling in riotous beauty across cheeks and ears.

He had seated himself on the wheelbarrow again; she stood looking down at him, hands now bracketed on her narrow hips—­so close that the fresh fragrance of her grew faintly perceptible—­a delicate atmosphere of youth mingling with the perfume of the young garden.