"We had quite a struggle," he continued, "before we
finally decided on sandstone.
"You did, eh?" I said. There seemed nothing more to say;
I didn't know what sort of struggle he meant, or who
fought who; and personally sandstone or soapstone or any
other stone is all the same to me.
"This lawn," said Beverly-Jones, "we laid down the first
year we were here." I answered nothing. He looked me
right in the face as he said it and I looked straight
back at him, but I saw no reason to challenge his statement.
"The geraniums along the border," he went on, "are rather
an experiment. They're Dutch."
I looked fixedly at the geraniums but never said a word.
They were Dutch; all right, why not? They were an
experiment. Very good; let them be so. I know nothing in
particular to say about a Dutch experiment.
I could feel that Beverly-Jones grew depressed as he
showed me round. I was sorry for him, but unable to help.
I realized that there were certain sections of my education
that had been neglected. How to be shown things and make
appropriate comments seems to be an art in itself. I
don't possess it. It is not likely now, as I look at this
pond, that I ever shall.
Yet how simple a thing it seems when done by others.
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