"Are you taking me to the Flower Show this afternoon?" asked Celia at
breakfast.
"No," I said thoughtfully; "no."
"Well, that's that. What other breakfast conversation have I? Have you
been to any theatres lately?"
"Do you really want to go to the Flower Show?" I asked. "Because I don't
believe I could bear it."
"I've saved up two shillings."
"It isn't that--not only that. But there'll be thousands of people
there, all with gardens of their own, all pointing to things and saying,
'We've got one of those in the east bed,' or 'Wouldn't that look nice in
the south orchid house?' and you and I will be quite, quite out of it."
I sighed, and helped myself from the west toast-rack.
It is very delightful to have a flat in London, but there are times in
the summer when I long for a garden of my own. I show people round our
little place, and I point out hopefully the Hot Tap Doultonii in the
bathroom, and the Dorothy Perkins loofah, but it isn't the same thing as
taking your guest round your garden and telling him that what you really
want is rain. Until I can do that the Chelsea Flower Show is no place
for us.
"Then I haven't told you the good news," said Celia. "We _are_
gardeners." She paused a moment for effect. "I have ordered a
window-box."