"Oh, Jeannot, what nonsense! As if I do not talk to a million strangers
every summer! as if I could ever sell a flower if I did not! You are
cross this morning; that is what it is."
"Do you know the man's name?" said Jeannot, suddenly.
Bebee felt her cheeks grow warm as with some noonday heat of sunshine.
She thought it was with anger against blundering Jeannot's curiosity.
"No! and what would his name be to us, if I did know it? I cannot ask
people's names because they buy my roses."
"As if it were only roses!"
There was the length of the garden between them, and Bebee did not hear
as she sat on the edge of her roof with that light dreamful enjoyment
of air and sky and coolness, and all the beauty of the dawning day, which
the sweet vague sense of a personal happiness will bring with it to the
dullest and the coldest.
"You are cross, Jeannot, that is what it is," she said, after a while.
"You should not be cross; you are too big and strong and good. Go in and
get my bowl of bread and milk for me, and hand it to me up here. It is so
pleasant. It is as nice as being perched on an apple-tree.
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