Simply because our Amy was going, and had every right to go. Beautiful Amy was going to London, great fountain–head of all visions and marvels, even from white long–clothes up to the era of striped crinoline. And who shall object, except on the ground that Amy was too good to go? If Amy were put down now in Hyde Park, Piccadilly, or Regent–street, at the height and cream of the season, when fop, and screw, and fogey, Frivolus and Frivola, Diana Venatrix, Copa Syrisca, Aphrodite Misthote, yea, and even some natural honest girls moderately ticketed, are doing their caravaning—if Amy were put on the pathway there, in her simple grey hat and feather, and that roundabout chenille thing which she herself had made, and which followed the lines of her figure so, fifty fellows, themselves of the most satisfactory figure (at Drummondʼs, or at Couttsʼs), fifty fellows who had slipped the hook fifty times apiece (spite of motherly bend OʼShaugnessey) must have received their stroke of grace, and hated Cradock Nowell. Although the South–Western Railway had been open so many years, our forest–child had never been further from green leaf and yellow gorse than Winchester in the eastern hemisphere, and Salisbury in the western. And now after all to think that she was going to London, not for joy, but sorrow. Desperate coaxing it had cost; every known or new device—transparent every one of them, as the pleading eyes that urged it—every bit of cozening learned from three years old and upward, every girlish argument that never can hold water, unless it be a tear–drop; and, better than a million pleas, every soft caress and kiss, all loving, all imploring—there was not one of these but came to batter Amyʼs father, or ever he surrendered. For Johnʼs ideas were very old–fashioned as to maidenly decorum, and Aunt Eudoxiaʼs view of the matter was even more prim and grim than his. Yet (as Amy well remarked) if _she_ could see no harm in it, there certainly could be none; and how could they insist so much on the _καλόν_ and the _πρέπον_, as if they over–rode _τὸ δέον_! It is likely enough that this last stroke won the palm of victory; for, though Miss Amy knew little of Greek, and her father knew a great deal, she often contrived, with true feminine skill, to take his wicket neatly, before he had found his block–hole. And then her father would smile and chuckle, and ask to have his bat again; which never was allowed him. To think that any man should be the father of such _ἐυστοχία_! Therefore, that father was compelled to throw himself, flat as a flounder, on Eudoxiaʼs generosity; for the leech–bottle now was dry. “Darling Doxy, you know quite well you are such a wonderful manager; you have got a little cash somewhere?” He put it with a twist of interrogation, a quivering lever of doubt, and yet a grand fulcrum of confidence, which were totally irresistible. No wonder his daughter could coax. Oh that I were like you, John, when I want a bit of money!