May 26 + 

With H⁠⸺ in his garden. He is a great enthusiast. + 

“I disapprove entirely of your taste in gardening,” I said. “You object to the ‘ragged wilderness’ style, I like it. You like lawns laid out for croquet and your privet hedges pruned into ‘God Save the King’ or ‘Dieu et mon droit.’ My dear boy, if you saw Mr. ⸻’s wilderness at ⸻ you’d be so shocked you’d cut and run, and I imagine there’d be an affecting reunion between you and your beloved geraniums. For my part, I don’t like geraniums: they’re suburban, and all of a piece with antimacassars and stuffed birds under glass bells. The colour of your specimens, moreover,” I rapped out, “is vulgar⁠—like the muddied petticoats of old market women.” + 

H⁠⸺, quite unmoved, replied slowly, “Well, here are some like the beautiful white cambric of a lady of fashion. You’ve got no taste in flowers⁠—you’re just six feet of grief and patience.” We roared with laughing. + 

“Do stop watering those damned plants,” I exclaimed at last. But he went on. I exclaimed again and out of sheer ridiculousness, in reply he proceeded to water the cabbages, the gravel path, the oak tree⁠—and me! While I writhed with laughing. + 