But nobody ever took Harry the Blower's yarns very seriously.
It would have been natural for Lady Bridget to work herself up into a state of humanitarian excitement--the O'Hara's had always espoused unpopular causes--but since the arrival of the English mail a curious dreaminess had come upon her.

She spent idle hours in the hammock on the veranda, and would only rouse herself spasmodically to some trivial burst of energy--perhaps a boiling water skirmish against white ants, or a sudden fit of gardening--planting seeds, training the wild cucumber vines upon the veranda posts, or watering the shrubs and flowers within the rough paling fence that enclosed the house and garden.

A new-made garden, for ornament rather than for use, for the staple produce was grown in the Chinaman's garden by the lagoon.

Young passion-fruit vines barely concealing the fences' nakedness, a mango, a few small orange trees now in flower.

A Brazilian cherry, two or three flat-stone peach trees and loquets--all looking thirsty for rain--that was all.