He treated the man after the manner of
collectors and other mad men, that is to say, he carefully and with
a sort of anguish selected the best roots from the less excellent,
praised some, disparaged others, made a subtle scale ranging from a
thrilling worth and rarity to a degraded insignificance, and then
bought them all. The man was just pushing off his barrow when he
stopped and came close to the Major.
"I'll tell you what, sir," he said. "If you're interested in them
things, you just get on to that wall."
"On the wall!" cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional soul
quailed within him at the thought of such fantastic trespass.
"Finest show of yellow pansies in England in that there garden,
sir," hissed the tempter. "I'll help you up, sir."
How it happened no one will ever know but that positive enthusiasm
of the Major's life triumphed over all its negative traditions,
and with an easy leap and swing that showed that he was in no need
of physical assistance, he stood on the wall at the end of the
strange garden. The second after, the flapping of the frock-coat
at his knees made him feel inexpressibly a fool. But the next
instant all such trifling sentiments were swallowed up by the most
appalling shock of surprise the old soldier had ever felt in all
his bold and wandering existence.
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