at would tax the method of a man of
business to accomplish punctually, put your whole time at the disposal
of every fool who is pleased to waste it."

"It's all very well talking, Edward," said Aunt Theresa. "But what is
one to do?"

"Make a stand," said the Major. "When you're busy, and can't
conveniently see people, let your servant tell them so in as many words.
The friendship that can't survive that is hardly worth keeping, I
think. Eh, my dear?"

But I suppose the stand was to be made further on, for Major Buller took
Aunt Theresa to the concert at "the Rooms."

CHAPTER VI.

DRESS AND MANNER--I EXAMINE MYSELF--MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.

When we began our biographies we resolved that neither of us should read
the other's till both were finished. This was partly because we thought
it would be more satisfactory to be able to go straight through them,
partly as a check on a propensity for beginning things and not finishing
them, to which we are liable, and partly from the childish habit of
"saving up the treat for the last," as we used--in "old times"--to pick
the raisins out of the puddings and lay them by for a _bonne bouche_
when we should have done our duty by the more solid portion.

But our resolve has given way. We began by very much wishing to break
it, and we have ended by finding excellent reasons for doing so.

We both wish to read the biographies--why should we tease ourselves by
sticking obstinately to our first opinion?

No doubt it would be nice to read them "straight through." But we are
rather apt to devour books at a pace unfavourable to book-digestion, so
perhaps it will be better still to read them by bits, as one reads a
thing that "comes out in numbers."

And in short, at this point Eleanor took mine, and has read it, and I
have read hers. She lays down mine, saying, "But, my dear, you don't
remember all this?"

Which is true. What I have recorded of my first English home is more
what I know of it from other sources than what I positively remember.
And yet I have positive memories of my own about it, too.

I have hinted that my poor young mother did not look after me much. Also
that the Ayah, who had a mother's love and care for me, paid very little
attention to my being tidy in person or dress, except when I was
exhibited to "company."

But my mother was dead. Ayah (after a terrible parting) was left behind
in India. And from the time that I passed into Aunt Theresa's charge,