And in the August of that year I went and stayed with the Atherleys.
. . . . . .
One morning at breakfast I challenged Miss Atherley to an immediate game of tennis.
"Not directly after," said Mrs Atherley, "it's so bad for you.
Besides, we must just plant our flame-flower first."
I dropped my knife and fork and gazed at her open-mouthed.
"Plant your—WHAT?" I managed to say at last.
"Flame-flower. Do you know it? John brought one down last night—it looks so pretty growing up anything."
"It won't take a moment," said Miss Atherley, "and then I'll beat you."
"But—but you mustn't—you—you mustn't talk like THAT about it," I stammered." Th-that's not the way to talk about a flame-flower."
"Why, what's wrong?"