And then she must stop at the florist's to see whether he had any new ferns in his window, and have Felix again explain the difference between the big and little ferns and why the palms had such long leaves.
She was ready now for her visit to the two old painters, but this time Felix lingered.

He had caught sight of a garden wall in the rear of an old house, and with his hand in hers had crossed the street to study it the closer.

The wall was surmounted by a solid, wrought-iron railing into which some fifty years or more ago a gardener had twisted the tendrils of a wistaria.

The iron had cut deep, and so inseparable was the embrace that human skill could not pull them apart without destroying them both.
As he reached the sidewalk and got a clearer view of the vine, tracing the weave of its interlaced branches and tendrils, Masie noticed that he stopped suddenly and for a moment looked away, lost in deep thought.

She caught, too, the shadow that sometimes settled on his face, one she had seen before and wondered over.