“But, Mullins,” I said feverishly, “surely—do pull yourself together—isn’t bedding out that horrid thing you do with a plumb-line?”
“No, mum, no,” he replied, “pardon me, I don’t think you quite understand. Beddin’ out is nice young ’ardy plants that comes to their prime durin’ the summer months; gives far more effect they do than anything else.”
I remained doubtful, but weakened; he smiled in such a kindly, authoritative way.
“I used to be gardener with your ’usband’s pa, mum,” he ventured, just at the critical moment. “What a nice gentleman ’e was! and what a fine garden they always ’ad! We used to commence beddin’ out just about now, mum.”
I fell headlong into the gin. Mullins was utterly stupid and never took a point, but he made them sometimes and scored.
“He must know,” I thought, “why James’s father had acres and acres of hot-houses!” Then I remembered something; I clutched at a memory of my mother walking round the gardens at home. “The herbaceous border is getting rather thin, Ptarmigan,” I seemed to hear her say; “there won’t be enough flowers for the house. I can’t bear your stiff hot-house things.”
“Ah, yes, Mullins,” I said, upon this dim vision, “but I must have a good herbaceous border, or else we shall not have enough flowers for the house.”
“Make you a nice ’erbaceous border along that ’ere wall, mum,” he replied obligingly.
So we set to work. I bought catalogues and books of instructions; I also took in the Amateur Gardener. But this is the kind of way one gets let in. The book says:
“Pyrox gypsomanica (poor man’s rose). A very free flowering perennial; deep bright purple, standard growth; May to October; suits any soil.”