[Not yet ready.
THE BLUE GARDENIA.
(A Colourable Imitation.)
It was a splendid scarlet afternoon, and the little garden looked its gayest in the midsummer sunshine which streamed down its tiny paths. Yellow asters grew golden in the pale lemon light, whilst the green carnations which abounded everywhere seemed so natural that it was difficult to believe they had been wired on to the plants that morning by a London firm of florists. That was a plan on which Cecil Paragraph always insisted. As he was so fond of saying, Nature was a dear old thing, but she lacked inventiveness. It was only an outworn convention which objected to gilding the lily, or colouring the carnation. So the London florists always came each morning to convert the garden into a pink rhapsody.
Lord Archie (he was not a Lord really, but Cecil always insisted that a title was a matter of temperament) and Cecil were sitting out on the lawn. Clever conversation always takes place on the lawn. Cecil and Lord Archie smoked high-priced cigarettes. The witty characters always do.
"My dear Archie," said Cecil, "I have something important to tell you."
"If you were not Cecil Paragraph, that would mean that the milkman had called to have his account paid, or that Mary—or is it Martha?—had given notice. It's like letters headed 'Important,'—a prospectus of a gold mine, or a letter from a distant relative to say he's coming to stay the week-end. Saying 'week-end' always reminds me of the Baron de Book-Worms. I fancy myself haggling for a cheap ticket at a booking-office."
"Archie, you've prattled enough. Remember it is I who am expected to fill the bill. Archie, I am writing a book."