“Certainly, Nic,” and Basil took his sister’s hand between his own. “The other flower doesn’t root in the world at all: earth’s too vulgar for it, dearest maid. It’s a flower so fine, it’s grown out of silk or velvet, and stands upon a wire stalk. Whatever scent it has, it isn’t its own: it doesn’t come out of itself, sweet girl, but out of the fashion. Very fine flowers; very bright, and very sweet, and very wax-like,—but still, my darling virgin, they are flowers, sown in silk, cultivated by the scissors, and perched upon stiffness. Not at all the sort of flower for my button-hole, I can tell you.” “Dear no! Of course not,” cried the wicked Agatha, clapping her hands. “Bessy is, of course, _your_ heart’s-ease.” “My dear little puss,” said Basil, “I like Bessy, as I said, because she doesn’t think herself too good for other people: for all that, I’m not good enough for her. No, my little tortoise-shell, I shall always study humility, it’s safest—shall always think myself not good enough for any woman in the world. When I die, this is the epitaph I shall have grown over me:—‘_He was so humble of spirit, he never lifted his thoughts to marriage. Reader, go and do likewise._’” “My dear, strange Basil!” said Mrs. Jericho, with an incredulous laugh. “Shall endeavour to leave five pounds a-year, to have that epitaph grown over me in mustard and cress. Five pounds a-year, ma’am, to the sexton, to keep my memory green.” “I wonder what Miss Carraways would say if she heard you. But I know better,” said Monica. “I think, Agatha, we had better bespeak our posts as bridesmaids.” “Wouldn’t suffer it, my darling girls,” said Basil. “If ever I was to marry—not that I ever shall; no, no,—I shall walk through the world with the mustard-and-cress steadily in my eye—you shouldn’t come near my wife. No, no; you’re too good, too fine, too embroidered, for the plain work of matrimony. Bless your little filagree hearts, before you marry you ought to perform quarantine in cotton, and serve seven years to pies and puddings.” “Now, my dear, dear Basil”— But Edwin, entering with a letter, destroyed Mrs. Jericho’s sentence in its early syllables. “How curious!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “A letter from Mrs. Carraways. I know her dear hand from all my friends: there is such a flow of the lady about it. Ha! the party. ‘_Mr. and Mrs. Carraways request the honour of—_’ yes; we are all invited. This is to be the great fête of the season. Jogtrot Lodge will be burningly brilliant. The richest people will be there, and I have heard,” and Mrs. Jericho lowered her voice, “I have heard, some of the nobility.” “No doubt,” said Basil; “just a lord or two, to keep ’em sweet.” “Really, Basil, you ought to go and live in a cave, upon wild elder-berries; you ought,” said Monica; and then she turned to her parent, with a look of touching helplessness. “But, my dear mamma; _how_ are we to go?” “Yes, mamma,” said the forlorn Agatha, “_how_ are we to go?”