“He’s been a-cutting them already,” he growled.  “Before I came.”

Timbs loathed Marigold—­why, I could never discover—­and Marigold had the lowest opinion of Timbs.  It was an offence for Marigold to desecrate the garden by his mere footsteps; to touch a plant or a flower constituted a damnable outrage.  On the other side, Timbs could not approach my person for the purpose of rendering me any necessary physical assistance, without incurring Marigold’s violent resentment.

“He’ll go on cutting them,” said I, “unless you start in at once.”

He began.  I sent off Marigold in search of a wheelbarrow.  Then, having Timbs to myself, I summoned him to my side.

“Do you hold with a man sacrificing his life for his country?”

He looked at me for a moment or two, in his dour, crabbed way.

“I’ve got a couple of sons in France, trying their best to do it,” he replied.

That was the first I had ever heard of it.  I had always regarded him as a gnarled old bachelor without human ties.  Where he had kept the sons and the necessary mother I had not the remotest notion.

“You’re proud of them?”

“I am.”

“And if one was killed, would you grudge his grave a few roses?  For the sake of him wouldn’t you sacrifice a world of roses?”

His manner changed.  “I don’t understand, sir.  Is anybody killed?”

“Didn’t I say that all these roses were for Mrs. Connor?”

He dropped his secateur.  “Good God, sir!  Is it Captain Connor?”

The block-headed idiot of a Marigold had not told him!  Marigold is a very fine fellow, but occasionally he manifests human frailties that are truly abominable.

“We are going to sacrifice all our roses, Timbs,” said I, “for the sake of a very gallant Englishman.  It’s about all we can do.”

Of course I ought to have entered upon all this explanation when I first came on the scene; but I took it for granted that Timbs knew of the tragedy.

“Need we cut those blooms of the Rayon d’Or?” asked Timbs, alluding to certain roses under conical paper shades which he had been breathlessly tending for our local flower show.  “We’ll cut them first,” said I.

Looking back through the correcting prism of time, I fancy this slaughter of the innocents may have been foolishly sentimental.  But I had a great desire to lay all that I could by way of tribute of consolation at Betty’s feet, and this little sacrifice of all my roses seemed as symbolical an expression of my feelings as anything that my unimaginative brain could devise.

During the forenoon I superintended the packing of the baskets of roses in Pawling the florist’s cart, which I was successful in engaging for the occasion,—­neither wheelbarrow nor donkey carriage nor two-seater, the only vehicles at my disposal, being adequate; and when I saw it start for its destination, I wheeled myself, by way of discipline, through my bereaved garden.  It looked mighty desolate.  But though all the blooms had gone, there were a myriad buds which next week would burst into happy flower.  And the sacrifice seemed trivial, almost ironical; for in Betty’s heart there were no buds left.