I looked at James anxiously. He had a large hat on, and the sun couldn't have got to the back of his neck.
"My dear James," I said, "I don't pay you half-a-crown a week for being funny. Perhaps we had better make it two shillings in future."
However, he persisted in his theory that in the spring people stewed rhubarb in tarts and ate it!
Well, I have discovered since that this is actually so. People really do grow it in their gardens, not with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations but under the impression that it is a fruit. Consequently, I have found it necessary to adopt a firm line with my friends' rhubarb. On arriving at any house for a visit, the first thing I say to my host is, "May I see your rhubarb bed? I have heard such a lot about it."
"By all means," he says, feeling rather flattered, and leads the way into the garden.
"What a glorious sunset," I say, pointing to the west.
"Isn't it," he says, turning round; and then I surreptitiously drop a pint of weed-killer on the bed.
Next morning I get up early and paint the roots of the survivors with iodine.
Once my host, who for some reason had got up early too, discovered me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.