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door, she said, “What we are concerned about, however, is the extent of the land that goes with the building. Is it only the hundred feet or so within the wall of thorn bushes?”
    “Eh?”
    “That matted tangle of bushes at the back, all covered with thorns. I assume they are thorn bushes,” the chaperon told him.
    “I fancy that’s the extent of the land.”
    “As the area beyond is not in use, we thought we might put in a vegetable garden,” Mrs. Percy mentioned.
    Bigelow, so eager to please in all other areas, failed them here. “I shouldn’t, if I were you. That’s Avedon’s land, you see. My papa built the house, but Avedon wouldn’t give up an inch of land if his life depended on it. But there is plenty of room for a vegetable garden in front.”
    The ladies exchanged a defeated look. He saw he had disappointed them and sought how to redeem himself. “I’ll tell you what I will do, is clear away that jumble of bushes for you.”
    Lucy remembered the jungle in the back, and said, “You might bring your gun with you. The backyard is full of rabbits.”
    “By Jove!” This was an undertaking much to his liking.
    Bigelow rode home in a trance. He had not a doubt in the world that he was truly in love this time, and with such a nice, respectable lady that not even Uncle Adrian could find a fault with her. He sent for his head gardener before he retired and told him to take a couple of lads over to rip the bushes out at Rose Cottage, for the ladies wanted to put in a vegetable garden.
    “Which bushes?” the gardener asked in alarm.
    “The ones in front. I don’t own the land behind.”
    “You mean the rose bushes, milord?” the gardener asked, aghast. “They’re the making of the place.”
    Bigelow scratched his head. He had only half listened to the talk of bushes and thorns. “They can’t eat roses, can they? They want fresh vegetables.”
    “But the cottage would be nothing without the roses. Your Aunt Hanna’s roses are famous hereabouts.”
    “Just thin the cursed things out, then, and leave a patch for carrots and onions or whatever people grow in a vegetable garden.” The gardener glared. “Dash it, do as I tell you! It’s my house, ain’t it?”
    The ladies were awakened early the next morning by the sound of gunshots and shouts beneath their windows. Lucy concluded that either Bigelow was a wretched shot, or the garden possessed dozens of rabbits. There was no sleeping for the racket, so she dressed and went downstairs, where Mrs. Percy already sat, trying to rouse herself with coffee. It was seven-thirty.
    “Bigelow is very prompt,” Lucy said apologetically.
    “I’ve heard of country hours, but this is ridiculous!” her aunt replied. The shots and the shouting slowed down as the thinning progressed, till only an occasional crack rent the air. “We ought not to complain. It must be done if I am to have a garden. I’ll thank Bigelow and ask him if he would like some coffee.”
    He was delighted to accept and came tracking mud into the breakfast room. “I fancy that’s taken care of the problem.” He beamed. “And by now the bushes ought to be in shape as well.”
    Mrs. Percy frowned. “I did not see anyone out thinning the thorn bushes,” she said, surprised.
    “They’re chopping down those bushes out front where you want your vegetable garden,” he said. “I told you the land behind belongs to Avedon. I dare not touch it.”
    A strangled sound caught in Mrs. Percy’s throat. “You’re not chopping down the roses!”
    “Er—just the thorns.”
    She darted to the front door and stared in dismay. The bushes had been decimated, some of them uprooted entirely. Bigelow joined her to receive praise for his alacrity in executing this scheme of his own devising. He was so crestfallen when Mrs. Percy scolded him that his lower lip actually trembled. Lucy shook her head and had difficulty controlling her laughter.
    “They are Bigelow’s roses after all, Auntie, and if