ferns. Some people have, you know. It 's just because we take more care of them than others."
"My sister-in-law would die of envy if she could see those," said Gault, indicating the maidenhairs; "she 's always buying that sort of thing, and they 're always dying."
Viola looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. The color deepened in her cheeks, and then she looked away and began to play with the lock of the door.
"She must buy a great many?" she said, with a questioning inflection.
"Cart-loads," said he, absently, wondering what had caused her augmented color, and watching her as he would always now watch her whenever there was the slightest deviation from her normal manner.
"And I suppose," she said, "she spends a great deal on them?"
"I suppose so," he answered, "judging by the number that I 've seen wither in their prime and disappear, and new ones take their places the next day."
Viola pressed the lock in and shot it out.
"Are any of them dead just now?" she asked, in rather a small voice.
"Dozens, probably. It seems to me some of them are always dead, only they 're considerate enough not to all die at the same time."
There was a moment's pause. Gault's gaze
