“That’s a liar,” I thought, considering the weeds and the seedy laurel bushes, but I resolved not to give way to prejudice. “There is a good deal to be done, Mr. Mullins,” I said vaguely. The fact was, I knew what I wanted the garden to look like when it was done, but my ideas began and ended there. I was as ignorant as Mullins himself; the difference between us was that I was not nearly so stupid. That is why we could not get on; if his wits had been equal to mine we should have devised something between us in spite of our ignorance--I was going to say, with the help of our ignorance--because we should have done something entirely original. Being unhampered by foregone conclusions born of knowledge, we should not have had our inspirations blighted, as so many people have who understand the possibilities of an art. And we might have revolutionised the laws of Nature; one never knows! But Mullins was a fool; he did not understand when I said that I wanted the garden to look as if the things grew there by themselves. “You’ll want some nice beddin’-out plants, mum, if that’s so,” he observed. “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.” “Mopincosa juicyflorum. (English hibiscus); orange, scarlet, and blue; very prolific; suitable for damp waste places where soil occurs rarely; flowers all the year round.”