"You're just going to plant it! Before you play tennis! It isn't a—a BUTTERCUP! You can't do it like that."
"Oh, but do give us any hints—we shall be only too grateful."
"Hints! Just going to plant it!" I repeated, getting more and more indignant. "I—I suppose Sir Christopher Wren s-said to his wife at breakfast one morning, 'I've just got to design St Paul's Cathedral, dear, and then I'll come and play tennis with you. If you can give me any hints—'"
"Is it really so difficult?" asked Mrs Atherley. "We've seen lots of it in Scotland."
"In Scotland, yes. Not in the South of England." I paused, and then added, "WE have one."
"What soil is yours? Do you plant it very deep? Do they like a lot of water?" These and other technical points were put to me at once.
"Those are mere details of horticulture," I said. "What I am protesting against is the whole spirit in which you approach the business—the light-hearted way in which you assume that you can support a flame-flower. You have to be a very superior family indeed to have a flame-flower growing in your garden."
They laughed. They thought I was joking.
"Well, we're going to plant it now, anyhow," said Miss Atherley.
"Come along and help us."
We went out, six of us, Mrs Atherley carrying the precious thing; and we gathered round an old tree trunk in front of the house.