towards home as fast
as I cared to go. What with the wet and the unusual responsibility, her
abridged costume did not stand the pace particularly well, and she got
quite querulous when I shouted back that I had no pins with me--and no
string. Some women expect so much from a fellow. When we got into the
drive she wanted to go up the back way to the stables, but the ponies
_know_ they always get sugar at the front door, and I never attempt to
hold a pulling pony; as for Mrs. Nicorax, it took her all she knew to
keep a firm hand on her seceding garments, which, as her maid remarked
afterwards, were more _tout_ than _ensemble_. Of course nearly the whole
house-party were out on the lawn watching the sunset--the only day this
month that it's occurred to the sun to show itself, as Mrs. Nic.
viciously observed--and I shall never forget the expression on her
husband's face as we pulled up. "My darling, this is too much!" was his
first spoken comment; taking into consideration the state of her toilet,
it was the most brilliant thing I had ever heard him say, and I went into
the library to be alone and scream. Mrs. Nicorax says I have no
delicacy.

Talking about tariffs, the lift-boy, who reads extensively between the
landings, says it won't do to tax raw commodities. What, exactly, is a
raw commodity? Mrs. Van Challaby says men are raw commodities till you
marry them; after they've struck Mrs. Van C., I can fancy they pretty
soon become a finished article. Certainly she's had a good deal of
experience to support her opinion. She lost one husband in a railway
accident, and mislaid another in the Divorce Court, and the current one
has just got himself squeezed in a Beef Trust. "What was he doing in a
Beef Trust, anyway?" she asked tearfully, and I suggested that perhaps he
had an unhappy home. I only said it for the sake of making conversation;
which it did. Mrs. Van Challaby said things about me which in her calmer
moments she would have hesitated to spell. It's a pity people can't
discuss fiscal matters without getting wild. However, she wrote next day
to ask if I could get her a Yorkshire terrier of the size and shade
that's being worn now, and that's as near as a woman can be expected to
get to owning herself in the wrong. And she will tie a salmon-pink bow
to its collar, and call it "Reggie," and take it with her everywhere--like
poor Miriam Klopstock, who _would_ take her Chow with her to the
bathroom, and