She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home. The two sisters met in the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on the gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully around his white paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed, well-bred, well-groomed cat.
“Did you ever see such dahlias?” demanded Ellen proudly. “They are just the finest we’ve ever had.”
Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in the garden was her concession to Ellen’s taste. She noticed one huge mottled one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others.