“As a commonplace individual, I should say,” Eugene suggested languidly⁠—for he was growing weary of the person of the house⁠—“that you smell flowers because you do smell flowers.”

“No I don’t,” said the little creature, resting one arm upon the elbow of her chair, resting her chin upon that hand, and looking vacantly before her; “this is not a flowery neighbourhood. It’s anything but that. And yet as I sit at work, I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses, till I think I see the rose-leaves lying in heaps, bushels, on the floor. I smell fallen leaves, till I put down my hand⁠—so⁠—and expect to make them rustle. I smell the white and the pink May in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that I never was among. For I have seen very few flowers indeed, in my life.”

“Pleasant fancies to have, Jenny dear!” said her friend: with a glance towards Eugene as if she would have asked him whether they were given the child in compensation for her losses.