inds out you
have leanings for Art. Here's a group, for instance--Cupid and
Fisky--in the nude."

"But, excuse me--" The Major stepped back and rubbed his chin
dubiously, for some careful hand had adorned the lovers with kilts of
pink wool in crochet work, and Psyche, in addition, wore a neat pink
turnover.

"The artist _designed_ 'em in the nude, but Maria worked the
petticoats, having very decided views, for which I don't blame her.
It keeps off the birds, too: not that the birds could do the same
damage here as in an ordinary garden."

"I can well believe that."

"But we were talking of oyster shells. They are, as I say, our
stand-by. To be sure, you can't procure 'em all the year round, like
marrow bones for instance; but, as I tell Maria, from a gardening
point of view that's almost a convenience. You can work at your beds
whenever there's an 'r' in the month, and then, during the summer,
take a spell, look about, and enjoy the results. Besides, it leaves
you free to plan out new improvements. Now, here"--Mr. Basket caught
his friend's arm, and leading him past a bust of Socrates ("an
Athenian," he explained in passing; "considered one of the wisest men
of antiquity, though not good-looking in _our_ sense of the word "),
paused on the brink of a small basin, cunningly sunk in centre of a
round, pebble-paved area guarded by statuary--"I consider this my
masterpiece."

"A fish-pond!"

"Yes, and containing real fish; goldfish, you perceive. I keep it
supplied from a rain-water cistern at the top of the house, and feed
'em on bread-crumbs. Never tell _me_," said Mr. Basket, "that
animals don't reason!"

"You certainly have made yourself a charming retreat," the Major
admitted, gazing about him.

Mr. Basket beamed. "You remember the lines I was wont to declaim to
you, my friend, over our bottle in Cheapside?--

"'May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. . . .'"

"For the last, it must be as Heaven pleases; but to some extent, you
see, I have come to enjoy my modest aspirations. Only until to-day
one thing was lacking. As poor Bannister used to quote it in the
play--you remember him?--

"'I've often wished that I had clear
For life six hundred pounds a year
A something-or-other house to lodge a friend. . . .'

"Ay, my dear Hymen," Mr. Basket wrung the Major's