o
produce a background for an open-air Russian Ballet; in point of fact, it
is merely the background to your luncheon party. If there is any kick
left in Gwenda Pottingdon, or whoever your E.O.N. guest of the moment may
be, just mention carelessly that your climbing putella is the only one in
England, since the one at Chatsworth died last winter. There isn't such
a thing as a climbing putella, but Gwenda Pottingdon and her kind don't
usually know one flower from another without prompting."

"Quick," said Elinor, "the address of the Association."

Gwenda Pottingdon did not enjoy her lunch. It was a simple yet elegant
meal, excellently cooked and daintily served, but the piquant sauce of
her own conversation was notably lacking. She had prepared a long
succession of eulogistic comments on the wonders of her town garden, with
its unrivalled effects of horticultural magnificence, and, behold, her
theme was shut in on every side by the luxuriant hedge of Siberian
berberis that formed a glowing background to Elinor's bewildering
fragment of fairyland. The pomegranate and lemon trees, the terraced
fountain, where golden carp slithered and wriggled amid the roots of
gorgeous-hued irises, the banked masses of exotic blooms, the pagoda-like
enclosure, where Japanese sand-badgers disported themselves, all these
contributed to take away Gwenda's appetite and moderate her desire to
talk about gardening matters.

"I can't say I admire the climbing putella," she observed shortly, "and
anyway it's not the only one of its kind in England; I happen to know of
one in Hampshire. How gardening is going out of fashion; I suppose
people haven't the time for it nowadays."

Altogether it was quite one of Elinor's most successful luncheon parties.

It was distinctly an unforeseen catastrophe that Gwenda should have burst
in on the household four days later at lunch-time and made her way
unbidden into the dining-room.

"I thought I must tell you that my Elaine has had a water-colour sketch
accepted by the Latent Talent Art Guild; it's to be exhibited at their
summer exhibition at the Hackney Gallery. It will be the sensation of
the moment in the art world--Hullo, what on earth has happened to your
garden? It's not there!"

"Suffragettes," said Elinor promptly; "didn't you hear about it? They
broke in and made hay of the whole thing in about ten minutes. I was so
heart-broken at the havoc that I had the whole place cleared out; I