“Compliment is it, my lady? The gentleman’s a crank, that’s what he is; he won’t never marry her, and there’s a good young man round the corner as is left out in the cold. He’s in the greengrocery line, and hev got a good bit o’ money put by, and the match ’ud be suitable in every way, for my daughter’s a good judge o’ green stuff.” “Mrs. Brown,” says Cicely, “I should like to have the pleasure of knowing your daughter. Will you bring her to see me? I am staying with Mr. Bertram’s aunt, Lady Southwold.” Mrs. Brown stares hard. “You do my girl a great honour, miss, but her head’s turned too crazy as ’tis. Poor folks, miss, ain’t got no place with rich ’uns.” “That is a rather narrow feeling, Mrs. Brown,” says Cicely; “and surely your daughter ought to begin to know Mr. Bertram’s friends and relatives?” “She won’t never be nought to Mr. Bertram, miss,” replies Mrs. Brown, very confidently. “’Tis a pack of stuff their thinkin’ on it. Lord, my lady, if you only see his shirts, that fine as cobwebs is coarse to ’em!” Lady Jane is much diverted. “She evidently does not believe in the seriousness of Bertram’s intentions, Cicely.” Mrs. Brown tucks her basket under her arm. “You’ll excuse me, my ladies, if I don’t stay to prate. Us poor folks ’even’t got time to lose in gossip; and if you can give me work, ’m, I’ll be truly thankful to you, ma’am--Eliza Brown, 20, Little Double Street, back o’ Portman Square. Your servant, ladies.” With that she bobs a curtsey and departs. “A nice honest woman,” says Cicely. Lady Jane laughs. “She doesn’t appreciate Bertram or his shirts. What right has he, with his principles, to wear lawn shirts? He ought to wear hemp.” Cicely traces patterns on the gravel with her sunshade. “I should like to see the girl.” “Why? You may be sure she is a little horror.” “I am sure she is a very good girl,” says Cicely. “I am sure she is a very good girl. A person must be good that lives amongst flowers.” “Florists are not all saints,” replies Lady Jane, out of patience; “and it does not seem an exalted mission to make button-holes for mashers. There is not even the excuse of good looks for Bertram’s aberration. She is quite a plain little thing, Marlow says.” “Let us take another turn,” says Cicely. “We shall see the children again.” Bertram returns from his visit to Folliott and Hake at two o’clock that day. He intended going down into the country to a friend’s house--a friend who buys Whistlers, adores Mallarme and Verlaine, writes studies on the _pointillistes_, and has published a volume of five hundred pages on Strindberg--but he feels indisposed for even that sympathetic society. He sends a telegram to excuse himself, and opens his own door with his latch-key.