"Pink geraniums?" I suggested.
"Yes. They're very pretty, you know."
"I know. But I could have wished for something more difficult. If we had something like—well, I don't want to seem to harp on it, but say calceolarias, then quite a lot of people mightn't recognise them, and I should be able to tell them what they were. I should be able to show them the calceolarias; you can't show people the geraniums."
"You can say, 'What do you think of that for a geranium?'" said Celia. "Anyhow," she added, "you've got to take me to the Flower Show now."
"Of course I will. It is not only a pleasure, but a duty. As gardeners we must keep up with floricultural progress. Even though we start with pink geraniums now, we may have—er, calceolarias next year. Rotation of crops and—and what not."
Accordingly we made our way in the afternoon to the Show.
"I think we're a little over-dressed," I said as we paid our shillings. "We ought to look as if we'd just run up from our little window-box in the country and were going back by the last train. I should be in gaiters, really."
"Our little window-box is not in the country," objected Celia. "It's what you might call a—a pied de terre in town. French joke," she added kindly. "Much more difficult than the ordinary sort."
"Don't forget it; we can always use it again on visitors. Now what shall we look at first?"
"The flowers first; then the tea."