series of illustrative anecdotes of the most terrible kind, for she
always talked, as she dressed, in extremes. The moral of every story was
that Matilda should be sent to school.

"And I'll send you over last year's numbers of the _Milliner and
Mantua-maker_, dear Mrs. Buller. There are always lots of interesting
letters about people's husbands and children, and education, and that
sort of thing, in the column next to the pastry and cooling drinks
receipts. There was a wonderfully clever letter from a 'M.R.C.S.' about
the difficulty of managing young girls, and recommending a strict school
where he had sent his daughter. And next month there were long letters
from five 'British Mothers' and 'A Countess' who had not been able to
manage their daughters, and had sent them to this school, and were in
every way satisfied. Mr. St. John declared that all the letters were
written by one person to advertise the school, but he always does say
those sort of things about anything I'm interested in."

"You're very kind," said Mrs. Buller.

"There was a most extraordinary correspondence, too, after that
shoemaker's daughter in Lambeth was tried for poisoning her little
brother," continued Mrs. St. John. "The _Saturday Review_ had an article
on it, I believe, only Mr. St. John can't bring papers home from the
mess, so I didn't see it. The letters were all about all the dreadful
things done by girls in their teens. There were letters from twelve
'Materfamiliases,' I know, because the editor had to put numbers to
them, and four 'Paterfamiliases,' and 'An Anxious Widower,' and 'A
Minister,' and three 'M.D.'s.' But the most awful letter was from 'A
Student of Human Nature,' and it ended up that every girl of fifteen was
a murderess at heart. If I can only lay my hand on that number---- but
I've lent it to so many people, and there was a capital paper pattern in
it too, of the _jupon a l'Imperatrice_, ready pricked."

At this point Uncle Buller literally exploded from the room. Aunt
Theresa said something about draughts, but I think even Mrs. St. John
must have been aware that it was the Major who banged the door.

I was sitting on the footstool by the fire-place making a night-dress
for my doll. My work had been suspended by horror at Mrs. St. John's
revelations, and Major Buller's exit gave an additional shock in which I
lost my favourite needle, a dear little stumpy one, with a very fine
point and a very big eye, easy to thread, a