"Pray, does he wear pyjamas?" I inquired.

But she had never heard of pyjamas.

It takes a long time to make my spring lists.
I want to have a border all yellow, every shade of yellow
from fieriest orange to nearly white, and the amount
of work and studying of gardening books it costs me
will only be appreciated by beginners like myself.
I have been weeks planning it, and it is not nearly finished.
I want it to be a succession of glories from May till the frosts,
and the chief feature is to be the number of "ardent marigolds"--
flowers that I very tenderly love--and nasturtiums.
The nasturtiums are to be of every sort and shade,
and are to climb and creep and grow in bushes, and show
their lovely flowers and leaves to the best advantage.
Then there are to be eschscholtzias, dahlias, sunflowers,
zinnias, scabiosa, portulaca, yellow violas, yellow stocks,
yellow sweet-peas, yellow lupins--everything that is yellow
or that has a yellow variety. The place I have chosen for it
is a long, wide border in the sun, at the foot of a grassy
slope crowned with lilacs and pines, and facing southeast.
You go through a little pine wood, and, turning a corner,
are to come suddenly upon this bit of captured morning glory.
I want it to be blinding in its brightness after the dark,
cool path through the wood.

That is the idea. Depression seizes me when I reflect upon
the probable difference between the idea and its realisation.
I am ignorant, and the gardener is, I do believe, still more so;