The wrong flowers

I bought the wrong flowers. It's not the first time, so I should have recognized the look of concern, the whispered consultation between staff behind the register. "These aren't... a present?"
"Nope, just for me," I said. No fancy ribbons necessary.
"Well... you know that these are something-something flowers..."
"Sorry, they're what-flowers?" They had no roots, which I know are a big no-no for taking to sick people, so that wasn't the problem.
"For an altar. Or a grave. They have a chrysanthemum. Are you planning to use these for an altar or a grave?"
Oh. This.
"Uh, no. But it's okay." Is it okay? I'm in a hurry. It's rush hour and the florist is wedged in a corner of a train station that's under construction. Exposed beams, steel floor plates and taped-up wall coverings make it feel extra claustrophobic and clangy. I just want to take my ¥500-bouquet and get out of there.
"They are meant for an altar or a grave. I wonder if that's okay with you?" she asked again. I can't read the tone, the degree of concern. Was she worried that I didn't understand or offended that I understood and was going to do something heathen with them anyway?
"I understand, and it's okay," I said. I paid and left.
But I wondered if it was okay. Was this a ha-ha, toilet-slippers-in-the-living-room faux pas or a shoes-in-the-house felony? After all this time, there's still plenty I just don't really know.

Disastrous?