They might be the show of the county-if we had Mr.
Timson here." Miss Vanderpoel, standing in the sunshine on the broad weed-grown pathway, was conscious that he was remotely moving.

His flowers--his flowers.

They had been the centre of his rudimentary rural being.

Each man or woman cared for some one thing, and the unfed longing for it left the life of the creature a thwarted passion.

Kedgers, yearning to stir the earth about the roots of blooming things, and doomed to broccoli and cabbage, had spent his years unfed.