Bissy, incidentally, was Aquaviva’s grandson and only relative. He was presumably a boy, but of unknown age. His squeezed elfin face showed the gravity of a man of forty. He took himself immensely seriously, regarding the flower-farm as his heritage, invited or merited no rebuke, worked solemnly within his limits, and took no fantastic risks. And yet the boy was in him somewhere, as naughty Isabella loved to prove by probing. It was just possible, so to speak, to scratch the horticulturist and find the mudlark. “Bissy,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes: “what do you know of Fanchette Becquet?” The imp did not even start. He just looked inquiringly round with his large owlish eyes, then straightened himself to his four foot six of stature. “It is blood that amuses Mamselle Fanchette,” he answered promptly. “That is what I know about her, Excellency.” “Blood, you nasty boy!” cried the young lady, with a little nose of disgust. “Look you, Madonna,” said Bissy; “I know what I say. She comes to see the gardens once or twice, and to praise the scents--to ask them too: a little rose-water for her kerchief, some geraniums to put in her bosom, a spray of rosemary for her garters. She is a poor maid; her salary is paid irregularly--which I do not believe; she will justify the gift through her recommendations. But that is all nothing to her passion for the orange-grove. I tell her what I will tell you about these trees. They are grafted on a stock of lemon; they are planted in a good clayey soil, enriched with both animal manure and rotted leaf-mould; their roots are ventilated with plenty of broken charcoal. But since they are gross feeders, there is something else. It is blood from the butchers that they are greedy at times to drink; and it is that which pleases Mamselle Fanchette. Her eyes glitter like a tiger’s. ‘I like to hear that,’ she says. ‘They are brave trees, and earn their right to be the wedding tokens of women who love brave men’--and she sniffs at the blossoms as if she found a new savour in them. O, she loves blood!” “You take a symbol for a sentiment,” cried Isabella--“you do, you horrid boy. I know Fanchette better than you, and she would not hurt a mouse. Why do you try to spoil my pretty grove for me. I think I will never come here again.” “I should be sorry for that,” said Bissy gravely. “Then do not say such things any more. What were you peering at when I came in?” Bissy wiped his right hand on his breeches; then nipping the lady’s tender little palm in it, drew Isabella to the violet clump. “Bend down and look in,” he said. She obeyed; and there was a monstrous toad returning her gaze. Its golden eyes stared unwinking at her; its slow throat pulsated. “Do you know, Bissy,” whispered the girl, after a moment’s pause, “that he has a wonderful jewel in his head.” “Bagattella!” said Bissy. “Who told you so?”