MRS. BAGOT had a very short straight scissors for cutting all the flowers except the roses. She had a small knife for the roses. The scissors and the knife were kept together at the end of the narrow shelf over the kitchen sink, beside the door that led out into the garden. The door was thick and heavy, of painted green wood. It often got stuck in its frame, especially at the bottom, but today, in the pleasant June weather, it stood open, showing a small corner of cement yard enclosed by the sharp right angle of two gray walls.

Bennie, the rough-haired white terrier, lay outside the kitchen doorway with his back firmly pressed against the step. Bennie was getting old. His legs were stretched stiffly in front of him and his eyes were closed, but when Mrs. Bagot stepped over him, stepping from the red tiles of the kitchen floor to the gray cement, his stubby tail began to wag gently and his uppermost eye, at least, opened and followed her until she reached the grass, a few feet away. Then he scrambled up and ran after her. The grass was a neat oblong surrounded on three sides by flower beds. Mrs. Bagot moved very slowly along at the edge of the grass. She had only the scissors with her. She wanted a few flowers to brighten up Martin’s room — a few pinks, a few daisies, a few marigolds to fight with the pinks, no roses, no wallflowers, perhaps a sprig of forget-me-not if it looked strong enough not to droop. She kept her neck bent and looked at the flowers with severity and concern, frowning. She wore a navy blue skirt and a white blouse and an apron of faded blue cotton. She was very thin to be the mother of three children, one of them dead. Every time she paused, or bent to cut a flower, Bennie sat down at her feet.

Where the cement joined the grass, the garden wall that separated Mrs. Bagot from her neighbor dipped suddenly to a height of only five feet, and along this low part Mrs. Bagot had put up a green wooden trellis. She had extended the trellis to about a foot above the wall, and there she trained ivy and something she called “the vine,” but for politeness’ sake she left an open space where the red-haired lady next door, Mrs. Finn, could peer through and make remarks. Mrs. Finn had something to say about everything, and she never waited to hear whether you agreed with her or not. She was goodhearted, in her way, but she was too loud.