Mrs. Toland watched him out of sight. Then she trotted off to Hee's
domain. Sally straggled out into the garden, with Janey and Constance
and the small boy following after. There was great distress because the
little girls were all for tennis, and Keith Borroughs frankly admitted
that he hated tennis.
The Tolands' rambling mansion was built upon so sharp a hill that the
garden beds were bulkheaded like terraces, and the paths were steep.
Roses--delicious great white roses and the apricot-coloured San Rafael
rose--climbed everywhere, and hung in fragrant festoons from the low,
scrub-oak trees that were scattered through the garden. Every vista
ended with the blue bay, and the green gate at the garden's foot opened
directly upon a roadway that hung like a shelf above the water.
Sally and the children gathered nasturtiums and cornflowers and ferns
for the house. The place had been woodland only a few years ago, the
earth was rich with rotting leaves, and all sorts of lovely forest
growths fringed the paths. Groups of young oaks and an occasional bay or
madrone tree broke up any suggestion of formal arrangement, and there
were still wild columbine and mission bells in the shady places.
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