"Celia, my child," I cried, "this is glorious news! I haven't been so
excited since I recognised a calceolaria last year, and told my host it
was a calceolaria just before he told me. A window-box! What's in it?"
"Pink geraniums and--and pink geraniums and--er----"
"Pink geraniums?" I suggested.
"Yes. They're very pretty, you know."
"I know. But I could have wished for something more difficult. If we had
something like--well, I don't want to seem to harp on it, but say
calceolarias, then quite a lot of people mightn't recognise them, and I
should be able to tell them what they were. I should be able to show
them the calceolarias; you can't show people the geraniums."
"You can say, 'What do you think of _that_ for a geranium?'" said Celia.
"Anyhow," she added, "you've got to take me to the Flower Show now."
"Of course I will. It is not only a pleasure, but a duty. As gardeners
we must keep up with floricultural progress. Even though we start with
pink geraniums now, we may have--er, calceolarias next year. Rotation of
crops and--and what not."
Accordingly we made our way in the afternoon to the Show.
"I think we're a little over-dressed," I said as we paid our shillings.
"We ought to look as if we'd just run up from our little window-box in
the country and were going back by the last train. I should be in
gaiters, really."
"Our little window-box is not in the country," objected Celia. "It's
what you might call a--a _pied de terre_ in town. French joke," she
added kindly. "Much more difficult than the ordinary sort."
"Don't forget it; we can always use it again on visitors. Now what shall
we look at first?"
"The flowers first; then the tea."