Wait till we've got into the main road here and I'll try and explain." They were passing along a country lane, so narrow that twigs from the hedges, wreathed here and there in wild roses, brushed almost against their cheeks.

On their left was the sound of a reaping-machine and the perfume of new-mown hay.

The sun was growing stronger at every moment.

A transitory gleam of pleasure softened her face.
"It is ages since I smelt honeysuckle," she confessed, "except in a perfumer's shop.

I was wondering what it reminded me of." "That," he said, as they turned out into the broad main road, with its long vista of telegraph poles, "is because you have been neglecting the real for the sham, flowers themselves for their artificially distilled perfume.