To lie under an acacia tree that last
week and look up through the branches at its frail leaves and white
flowers quivering against the blue of the sky, while the least movement
of the air shook down their scent, was a great happiness. Indeed, the
whole garden dressed itself gradually towards the end in white pinks
and white banksai roses, and the syringe and the Jessamine, and at last
the crowning fragrance of the acacias. When, on the first of May,
everybody went away, even after they had got to the bottom of the hill
and passed through the iron gates out into the village they still could
smell the acacias.
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