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He wanted to drink them. As
he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still
wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said:
"Why don't you get some?"
"I don't believe in it. They look better growing."
"But you'd like some?"
"They want to be left."
"I don't believe they do."
"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me," she said.
"That's a stiff, artificial notion," he said. "They don't die any
quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in
a bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it
looks corpse-like."
"Whether it is one or not?" she argued.
"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower."
Clara now ignored him.
"And even so--what right have you to pull them?" she asked.
"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them."
"And that is sufficient?"
"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your room in Nottingham."
"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.


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