ostage
stamps."

This is Alphonse Karr's magnificent spring assortment--his Grand
Occasion.

"So you see, Mr. Cockayne," said his wife, "this Mr. Karr, whose book
about the garden--twaddle, _I_ call it--you used to think so very fine
and poetic, is just a market-gardener and nothing more. He is positively
an advertising tradesman."

"Nothing more, mamma, I assure you," said Sophonisba. "I remember at
school that one of the French young ladies, Mademoiselle de la Rosiere,
told me that when her sister was married, the bride and all the
bridesmaids had Alphonse Karr's _bouquets_. It seems that the mercenary
creature advertises to sell ball or wedding _bouquets_, which he manages
to send to Paris quite fresh in little boxes, for a pound apiece."

"Do you hear that?" said Mrs. Cockayne, addressing her husband. "This is
your pet, sir, who was so fond of his beetles! Why, the man would sell
the nightingales out of his trees, if he could catch them, I've no
doubt."

"The story is a little jarring, I confess," Pater said. "But after all,
why shouldn't he sell the flowers also, when he sells the pretty things
he writes about them?"

"Upon my word, you're wonderful. You try to creep out of everything. But
what is that you were reading, my dear Sophonisba, about the _grande
occasion_ near the Louvre Hotel? I dare say it's a great deal more
interesting than Mr. Karr and his violets. I haven't patience with your
papa's affectation. What was it we saw, my dear, in the Rue Saint
Honore? The 'Butterfly's Chocolate'?"

"Yes, mamma," Theodosia answered. "_Chocolat du Papillon_. Yes; and you
know, mamma, there was the linen-draper's with the sign _A la Pensee_. I
never heard such ridiculous nonsense."

"Yes; and there was another, my dear," said Mrs. Cockayne, "'To the fine
Englishwoman,' or something of that sort."

"Oh, those two or three shops, mamma," said Sophonisba, "dedicated _A
la belle Anglaise!_ Just think what people would say, walking along
Oxford Street, if they were to see over a hosier's shop, written in big,
flaring letters, 'To the beautiful Frenchwoman!"

Mr. Cockayne laughed. Mrs. Cockayne saw nothing to laugh at. She
maintained that it was a fair way of putting the case.

Mr. Cockayne said that he was not laughing at his wife, but at some much
more ridiculous signs which had come under his notice.

"What do you say," he asked, "to a linen-draper's called the 'Siege of
Corinth?' or the 'Great Conde?'