'Do you allude to Hollyhock?'
'Now, George, is it wise—is it sensible to call those children after the flowers of the garden and the field? I assure you your manner of bringing up your family makes me sick—yes, sick!'
'Oh, don't trouble about us,' said Lennox. 'We get on uncommonly well. They are my children, you know.'
'And Lucy's,' whispered Miss Delacour, her voice slightly shaking.
'I am very sorry to hurt you, Agnes; but Lucy herself—dear, sweet, precious Lucy—liked the idea of each of the children being called after a flower; not baptismally, of course, but in their home life. One of the very last things she said to me before she died was, "Call the little one Delphinium." Now, have we not talked enough on this, to me, most painful subject? My Lucy and I were one in heart and deed.'
'Alas, alas!' said Miss Delacour. 'How hard it is to get men to understand! I knew Lucy longer than you. I brought her up; I trained her. The good that was in her she owed to me. She has passed on—a beautiful expression that—but I feel a voice within me saying—a voice which is her voice—"Agnes, remember my children. Agnes, think of my children. Do for them what is right. Remember their father's great weakness."'
'Thanks,' replied Lennox. 'That voice in your breast did not come from Lucy.'
Miss Delacour gave a short, sharp sigh.
'Oh, the ignorance of men!' she exclaimed. 'Oh, the silly, false pride of men! They think themselves the very best in the world, whereas they are in reality a poor, very poor lot.'
Lennox fidgeted in his chair.