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Edith had never cared much for the hothouse, but goes along with his whim to visit now – it's his last day after all. Still, she moves quickly through the aisles, casting cursory glances on the showy displays. "I don't like orchids, they're too exotic."
William lingers. "Too exotic?" Does she mean 'erotic'? There is something brazen about their vulvar clefts and tumescent protrusions. He recalls the line drawings of pudenda in Frampton's anatomy book.
"Yes. Some flowers can be too exotic for their own good."
"What a rum suggestion," William says softly.
The evening Frampton had infuriated him so much, blathering about the curious sexuality of the garden worm, he'd also noted the general hermaphroditism of orchids. William mouths the names of the specimens in the hothouse. How peculiar this one is. He thinks to call Edith over, but doesn't. "Adam and Eve – Aplectrum Hyemale." His lawyer's Latin can't help with that, but he understands why the English name was given. He peers at the complex folds and swellings of the orchids, the cleavings of carpel and stamen. Can he perhaps make out his own sex and Edith's fancied organs merged as one?
Edith paces back to him, slips her arm through his. "It's too hot in here. Let's go find some tea."
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