But Lord Willoughby’s hyacinth . . .” “There is no Lord Willoughby,” cried Algernon. “It has always been your hyacinth.” “My hyacinth?” “Yes, the one over there.” Algernon pointed at the purple-crowned hyacinth that was, indeed, thrusting proudly from a pot upon Lord Farrow’s desk. “Although, in retrospect, I was probably thinking about your penis.”
