The perfume was not so heavy.

The sheeted whiteness of the orange groves was broken with the paler white of plum merging imperceptibly into the delicate pink of apricot and the stronger pink of peach, and there were deep green orchards of smooth waxen olive foliage and the lacy-leaved walnuts.

Then came the citrus orchards again, and all the way on either hand running with them were almost uninterrupted miles of roses of every color and kind, and everywhere homes ranging from friendly mansions, all written over in adorable flower color with the happy invitation, "Come in and make yourself at home," to tiny bungalows along the wayside crying welcome to this gay pair of youngsters in greetings fashioned from white and purple wisteria, gold bignonia, every rose the world knows, and myriad brilliant annual and perennial flower faces gathered from the circumference of the tropical globe and homing enthusiastically on the King's Highway.

Sometimes Linda lifted her hand from the wheel to wave a passing salute to a particularly appealing flower picture.
Sometimes she whistled a note or cried a greeting to a mockingbird, a rosy finch, or a song sparrow.
"Look at the pie timber!" she cried to Donald, calling his attention to a lawn almost covered with red-winged blackbirds.

"Four hundred and twenty might be baked in that pie," she laughed.
Then a subtle change began to creep over the world.