llings."

"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."

I dropped the marmalade and jumped up eagerly.

"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. F