A delicate hand with long, red nails reaches out to take the silver bell from the mahoganey table.  A soft ring can be heard.  The woman turns her soft eyes upon you.  She smiles.

"Welcome to my gardens," she says, reclining on the settee.  "Please do make yourself at home.  Forgive the decorators, as they seem to always be here, changing this or that, adding something...*sigh*"

The soft voice pauses as a portly maid enters bearing a tray filled with tea and pastries enters and serves you.  The dim light in the room keeps you from seeing the woman opposite you clearly, but you can hear the rustle of silk as she lifts her own cup to sip.

"This is where I come to do my writing," the soft voice finally continues.  "Here in my private gardens... I write...each garden holds a different story, and while the blooms are sweet, the thorns sometimes prick the soul."

The lady rises, her slender form only a silhouette in the dim room.  "My guests have been known to leave their own writings strewn about as well.  One never knows where they may find a lovely piece hiding in this humble dwelling of mine..."

The sound of rustling silk can be heard, as the silhouette moves to the austere french doors.  A latch turns, and the doors open, flooding the room with light.  You can now see the antique furnishings.  The highback chairs that flank the marble fireplace, the mahoganey highboy on which a large vase filled with orchids stands.  The gilt mirrors reflect the light, and make the room seem even brighter...

Turning your eyes back to the door, the woman is gone... as if she had only been a figment of your imagination.  The fresh scent of roses fills the room.  It beckons you.  Rising, you can't seem to resist the call, and your feet take you into the gardens...