Now, it is clear that mating preferences must be either fixed or variable. If fixed, how can differentiation occur in the same flock or herd? And how can selective association be a means of isolation? Or, granting that differentiation has occurred, if the mating preferences are then stereotyped, all further differentiation, so far as colour and form are concerned, will be rendered impossible; for divergent modifications, not meeting the stereotyped standard of taste, will for that reason fail to be perpetuated. We must admit, then, that these mating preferences are subject to variation. And now we come to the central question with regard to sexual selection by means of preferential mating. What guides the variation along special lines leading to heightened beauty? This, I take it, is the heart and centre of Mr. Wallace's criticism of Darwin's hypothesis. Sexual selection of preferential mating involves a standard of taste; that standard has advanced from what we consider a lower to what we consider a higher æsthetic level, not along one line, but along many lines. What has guided it along these lines? Not as in any sense affording a direct answer to this question, but for illustrative purposes, we may here draw attention to what seems to be a somewhat parallel case, namely, the development of flowers through insect agency. In his "Origin of Species," Darwin contended that flowers had been rendered conspicuous and beautiful in order to attract insects, adding, "Hence we may conclude that, if insects had not been developed on the earth, our plants would not have been decked with beautiful flowers, but would have produced only such poor flowers as we see on our fir, oak, nut, and ash trees, on grasses, docks, and nettles, which are all fertilized through the agency of the wind." "The argument in favour of this view," says Mr. Wallace,[CY] who quotes this passage, "is now much stronger than when Mr. Darwin wrote;" and he cites with approval the following passage from Mr. Grant Allen's "Colour-Sense:" "While man has only tilled a few level plains, a few great river-valleys, a few peninsular mountain slopes, leaving the vast mass of earth untouched by his hand, the insect has spread himself over every land in a thousand shapes, and has made the whole flowering creation subservient to his daily wants. His buttercup, his dandelion, and his meadowsweet grow thick in every English field. His thyme clothes the hillside; his heather purples the bleak grey moorland. High up among the Alpine heights his gentian spreads its lakes of blue; amid the snows of the Himalayas his rhododendrons gleam with crimson light. Even the wayside pond yields him the white crowfoot and the arrowhead, while the broad expanses of Brazilian streams are beautified by his gorgeous water-lilies. The insect has thus turned the whole surface of the earth into a boundless flower-garden, which supplies him from year to year