A HANGING GARDEN IN BABYLON. "Are you taking me to the Flower Show this afternoon?" asked Celia at breakfast. "No," I said thoughtfully; "no." "Well, that's that. What other breakfast conversation have I? Have you been to any theatres lately?" "Do you really want to go to the Flower Show?" I asked. "Because I don't believe I could bear it." "I've saved up two shillings." "It isn't that--not only that. But there'll be thousands of people there, all with gardens of their own, all pointing to things and saying, 'We've got one of those in the east bed,' or 'Wouldn't that look nice in the south orchid house?' and you and I will be quite, quite out of it." I sighed, and helped myself from the west toast-rack. It is very delightful to have a flat in London, but there are times in the summer when I long for a garden of my own. I show people round our little place, and I point out hopefully the Hot Tap Doultonii in the bathroom, and the Dorothy Perkins loofah, but it isn't the same thing as taking your guest round your garden and telling him that what you really want is rain. Until I can do that the Chelsea Flower Show is no place for us. "Then I haven't told you the good news," said Celia. "We _are_ gardeners." She paused a moment for effect. "I have ordered a window-box." I dropped the marmalade and jumped up eagerly. "Celia, my child," I cried, "this is glorious news! I haven't been so excited since I recognised a calceolaria last year, and told my host it was a calceolaria just before he told me. A window-box! What's in it?" "Pink geraniums and--and pink geraniums and--er----" "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?"