The sale languished.  There were so many lots of one particular sort of dried orchid that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable price, and many had to be bought in.  At length the genial Mr. Primrose in the rostrum addressed the audience.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I quite understand that you didn’t come here to-day to buy a rather poor lot of Cattleya Mossiæ.  You came to buy, or to bid for, or to see sold the most wonderful Odontoglossum that has ever been flowered in this country, the property of a famous firm of importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune in having obtained such a gem.  Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal greenhouse.  But there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without reserve.  Now, I think,” he added, running his eye over the company, “that most of our great collectors are represented in this room to-day.  It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist, Mr. Somers, but he has left his worthy head-gardener, Mr. Woodden, than whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England” (here Woodden rocked violently) “to bid for him, as I hope, for the glorious flower of which I have been speaking.  Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will proceed to business.  Smith, hand the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ round, that everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don’t let it fall.  Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with tobacco smoke.  Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four—­no, five more to open.  A strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs with leaves, and three without.  Two black leads which I am advised can be separated off at the proper time.  Now, what bids for the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’  Ah!  I wonder who will have the honour of becoming the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of Nature.  Thank you, sir—­three hundred.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Seven in three places.  Eight.  Nine.  Ten.  Oh! gentlemen, let us get on a little faster.  Thank you, sir—­fifteen.  Sixteen.  It is against you, Mr Woodden.  Ah! thank you, seventeen.”

There came a pause in the fierce race for “O.  Pavo,” which I occupied in reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling.

My word!  I thought to myself, £85 is a goodish price to pay for one plant, however rare.  Woodden is acting up to his instructions with a vengeance.

The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said, “surely you are not going to allow the most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat there is no reserve, to be knocked down at this miserable figure.  Come, come.  Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no sleep to-night.  One,” and his hammer fell for the first time.  “Think, gentlemen, upon my position, think what the eminent owners, who with their usual delicacy have stayed away, will say to me when I am obliged to tell them the disgraceful truth.  Two,” and his hammer fell a second time.  “Smith, hold up that flower.  Let the company see it.  Let them know what they are losing.”