els, she said. The rooms must be bright with them.
What shall I bring in?
Everything there is! Pick until you are tired. Anna will do the rest.
Grasping the scissors and a proffered basket, the Countess made her way out. Lou and Mary, the cook, noted with horror that the cigarette still rested between her lips. It was a bright June day, not too warm. Fleecy clouds speckled the iris sky. The birds were singing. As she strolled to the rosegarden abutting upon the barn, Ella began to feel almost happy. Discarding her cigarette, now burning uncomfortably close to the tip, she clipped the yellow tea-roses, the magenta roses on their long stalks, and the pink ramblers growing on a trellis. Occasionally, she hesitated to gaze across the green lawn where the robins hopped saucily about, now pecking the turf, now, with the long, wriggling angle-worms in their beaks, flying away towards some unseen nest. A cardinal made a scarlet spot in one of the oak-trees, and a Baltimore oriole shot a shaft of yellow through the air as he darted from branch to branch. Underneath the trees on the lawn, a sleek tabby cat appeared to be sleeping on his belly, but occasionally he exhibited certain signs which indicated that he was biding his time for a utilitarian spring.
The Countess bore her basket, brimming with roses, into the house and returned to clip peonies,
