Wenda had galvanised Donson into working very hard that he had made the garden look, she thought, almost as beautiful as in the days when they had eight gardeners.
He had also managed to repair the ancient fountain that stood in the centre of the lawn and Wenda clapped her hands with delight when, after lying broken and neglected ever since she could remember, it now strong threw jets of water up into the sky.
She surmised that it was a blessing in disguise that Donson had fallen out with Mr. Hatton and she had paid him herself to work in the garden.
Wenda told him that she would need every flower he could possibly grow, beg, borrow or steal on Friday morning.
“I’ll be sure to get all them flowers for you, Miss Wenda,” he promised, “don’t you a-worry.”
“I am not worrying, Donson, beca
