THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER
Really I know nothing about flowers. By a bit of luck, James, my gardener, whom I pay half a crown a week for combing the beds, knows nothing about them either; so my ignorance remains undiscovered. But in other people's gardens I have to make something of an effort to keep up appearances. Without flattering myself I may say that I have acquired a certain manner; I give the impression of the garden lover, or the man with shares in a seed company, or—or something.
For instance, at Creek Cottage, Mrs. Atherley will say to me, "That's an Amphilobertus Gemini," pointing to something which I hadn't noticed behind a rake.
"I am not a bit surprised," I say calmly.
"And a Gladiophinium Banksii next to it."
"I suspected it," I confess in a hoarse whisper.
Towards flowers whose names I know I adopt a different tone.
"Aren't you surprised to see daffodils out so early?" says Mrs. Atherley with pride.
"There are lots out in London," I mention casually. "In the shops."
"So there are grapes," says Miss Atherley.