Attar of roses, again, she disliked.  She said it reminded her of the city and of merchants’ wives, over-rich, over-heavy in its perfume.  And lilies-of-the-valley somehow fell under the same condemnation.  They were most graceful and elegant to look at (my lady was quite candid about this), flower, leaf, colour—­everything was refined about them but the smell.  That was too strong.  But the great hereditary faculty on which my lady piqued herself, and with reason, for I never met with any person who possessed it, was the power she had of perceiving the delicious odour arising from a bed of strawberries in the late autumn, when the leaves were all fading and dying.  “Bacon’s Essays” was one of the few books that lay about in my lady’s room; and if you took it up and opened it carelessly, it was sure to fall apart at his “Essay on Gardens.”  “Listen,” her ladyship would say, “to what that great philosopher and statesman says.  ’Next to that,’—­he is speaking of violets, my dear,—­’is the musk-rose,’—­of which you remember the great bush, at the corner of the south wall just by the Blue Drawing-room windows; that is the old musk-rose, Shakespeare’s musk-rose, which is dying out through the kingdom now.  But to return to my Lord Bacon:  ’Then the strawberry leaves, dying with a most excellent cordial smell.’  Now the Hanburys can always smell this excellent cordial odour, and very delicious and refreshing it is.  You see, in Lord Bacon’s time, there had not been so many intermarriages between the court and the city as there have been since the needy days of his Majesty Charles the Second; and altogether in the time of Queen Elizabeth, the great, old families of England were a distinct race, just as a cart-horse is one creature, and very useful in its place, and Childers or Eclipse is another creature, though both are of the same species.  So the old families have gifts and powers of a different and higher class to what the other orders have.  My dear, remember that you try if you can smell the scent of dying strawberry-leaves in this next autumn.  You have some of Ursula Hanbury’s blood in you, and that gives you a chance.”

But when October came, I sniffed and sniffed, and all to no purpose; and my lady—­who had watched the little experiment rather anxiously—­had to give me up as a hybrid.  I was mortified, I confess, and thought that it was in some ostentation of her own powers that she ordered the gardener to plant a border of strawberries on that side of the terrace that lay under her windows.

I have wandered away from time and place.  I tell you all the remembrances I have of those years just as they come up, and I hope that, in my old age, I am not getting too like a certain Mrs. Nickleby, whose speeches were once read out aloud to me.