"I asked you to wear a pink chrysanthemum. So I could recognize you, you know."
"I am wearing a pink chrysanthemum. I should have imagined that that was a fact that the most casual could hardly have overlooked."
"That thing?" the other gazed disparagingly at the floral decoration. "I thought it was some kind of cabbage. I meant one of those what-d'you-may-call-its that people do wear in their button-holes."
"Carnation! That's right."
Psmith removed the chrysanthemum and dropped it behind his chair. He looked at his companion reproachfully.
"If you had studied botany at school, comrade," he said, "much misery might have been averted. I cannot begin to tell you the spiritual agony I suffered, trailing through the metropolis behind that shrub."--Leave it to Psmith, P.G. Wodehouse, a review of which I happened on here, and thoroughly approved of.