Thalia looked at me suspiciously. “What have you got against it?” she demanded, and the Average Woman chorussed, “Now tell us.” I fixed a fuchsia sternly with my eye. “It’s an affected thing,” I said. “Always looking down. I think modesty can be an overrated virtue in a flower. It is also like a ballet-dancer, flaunting short petticoats, which doesn’t go with modesty at all. I like a flower to be sincere; there is no heart, no affection, no sentiment about a fuchsia.” Thalia listened to this diatribe with her head a little on one side. “You are _full_ of prejudices,” said she, “but there is something in this one. Nobody could say ‘My love is like a fuchsia.’” “It depends,” I said; “there are ladies not a hundred miles from here who thrill when they are told that they walk like the partridge and shine like the moon. I shouldn’t care about it myself.” “No, indeed,” said the Average Woman. “That bit beyond the mignonette seems rather empty. What are you going to put in there?” “Oh, nothing,” I said. “I don’t know,” remarked Thalia combatively, “when there are so many beautiful things in the world, why you should discriminate in favour of nothing.” “Yes, why?” said the Average Woman. “Well,” I replied defiantly, “that’s my spare bedroom. You’ve got to have _some_where to put people. I don’t like the feeling that every border is fully occupied and not a square inch available for any one coming up late in the season.” You can see that Thalia considers that while we are respected for our virtues our weaknesses enable us to enjoy ourselves. She accepts them as an integral and intentional part of us and from some of them she even extracts a contemplative pleasure. The Average Woman looks down upon such things and I did not dare to encounter her glance of reserved misunderstanding. Thalia smiled. I felt warmed and approved. “Alas!” said she, “my garden is all spare bedrooms.” She lives, poor dear, on the other side of the Jakko and has to wait till September for her summer. “I see you keep it aired and ready.”