Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Hesketh Viner had been very fond of a row of Michaelmas daisies that screened one side of the vegetable garden. Tall sheaves of green, and bursting into a shower of rose and white and purple stars, a September gale had been among them, breaking the perfunctory bands that Mary's casual man had drawn tight about them like apron strings. Waving every way, or draggling their colours in the soil, they had called for succour, and they had not called in vain. Poor Coode, that leaner upon fences, had come in with a handful of bass and a bundle of bean rods, and had set to work upon the flowers.

He was discovered there, a strand of bass in his mouth, and his arms about the waist of one of the tall clumps. She stood and watched him for a moment. She had wandered down through the garden before entering the house. It had been raining, and a black mackintosh hung over one arm; her shoes were muddy.