The pomegranate and lemon trees, the terraced
fountain, where golden carp slithered and wriggled amid the roots of
gorgeous-hued irises, the banked masses of exotic blooms, the pagoda-like
enclosure, where Japanese sand-badgers disported themselves, all these
contributed to take away Gwenda's appetite and moderate her desire to
talk about gardening matters.
"I can't say I admire the climbing putella," she observed shortly, "and
anyway it's not the only one of its kind in England; I happen to know of
one in Hampshire. How gardening is going out of fashion; I suppose
people haven't the time for it nowadays."
Altogether it was quite one of Elinor's most successful luncheon parties.
It was distinctly an unforeseen catastrophe that Gwenda should have burst
in on the household four days later at lunch-time and made her way
unbidden into the dining-room.
"I thought I must tell you that my Elaine has had a water-colour sketch
accepted by the Latent Talent Art Guild; it's to be exhibited at their
summer exhibition at the Hackney Gallery. It will be the sensation of
the moment in the art world--Hullo, what on earth has happened to your
garden? It's not there!"
"Suffragettes," said Elinor promptly; "didn't you hear about it? They
broke in and made hay of the whole thing in about ten minutes.
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