Camilla, leaning on the garden fence, had suddenly buried her face in both arms.

In feminine plumpness, when young, there is usually something left of the schoolgirl giggler.
The pretty girl below remained disdainfully indifferent.

She dug, she clipped, she explored, inhaling, with little thrills, the faint mounting odour of forest loam and sappy stems.
"I really must go back to New York and start my own garden," she said, not noticing Camilla's mischief.

"London Terrace will be green in another week." "How long do you stay with the Craigs, Ailsa ?" "Until the workmen finish painting my house and installing the new plumbing.

Colonel Arran is good enough to look after it." Camilla, her light head always ringing with gossip, watched Ailsa curiously.
"It's odd," she observed, "that Colonel Arran and the Craigs never exchange civilities." "Mrs.Craig doesn't like him," said Ailsa simply.
"You do, don't you ?" "Naturally.