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'I remember,' he assented heavily, with an accumulation of unspoken criticism in his tone. 'But how does she endure them? A bulb or two is nice to have, if you like them, but such a number, with their enervating odour, must be intolerable to anyone else.'

'But she likes them, worships them. She seems to think of nothing else from day to night. She looks at them, cares for them, she has some of them beside her when she sleeps, and first thing in the morning she comes downstairs to look at the others. I have known her to get up in the middle of the night to come downstairs to the sitting-room and look at them. Sometimes she will fall in a reverie over them, and I can scarcely call her away to a meal.'

'Yes, she must be fairly fond of them,' he assented grimly. 'But how do you stand it? It must get on your nerves, doesn't it, day after day?' He was consciously trying to arouse her. 'To say nothing of the smell. And she keeps the windows closed all the time?'

'Yes, nearly all the time.... Sometimes I plead with her, but I think it does no good, it does harm. She becomes secretive, and starts when I come into the room and she is with them.'