MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his place⁠—which was to rule. And he ruled⁠—despotically. Lady Coote approached him nervously.

“Good morning, MacDonald.”

“Good morning, m’lady.”

He spoke as head gardeners should speak⁠—mournfully, but with dignity⁠—like an emperor at a funeral.

“I was wondering⁠—could we have some of those late grapes for dessert tonight?”

“They’re no fit for picking yet,” said MacDonald.

He spoke kindly but firmly.

“Oh!” said Lady Coote.

She plucked up courage.

“Oh! but I was in the end house yesterday, and I tasted one and they seemed very good.”