eaves us almost
directly after dinner to lounge in his "den," and I have to go there
and say good-night to him. The place smells of stale smoke, some
particularly strong, common tobacco he will have in a pipe. He gets
into a soiled, old, blue smoking-coat, and sits there reading the
comic papers, huddled in a deep arm-chair, a whiskey-and-soda mixed
ready by his side. He is generally half-asleep when I get there. I do
not stay five minutes if I can help it; it is not agreeable, the smell
of whiskey.

There are so few books in the house. The first instalment of my
handsome "allowance" will soon be paid me, and then I will have books
of my own. I shall feel like a servant receiving the first month's
wages in a new place--a miserable beginner of a servant who has never
been "out" before. I feel I have earned them, though--earned them with
hard work.

Just this last month numbers of people have been to call on me. They
left only cards at first, because of my "sad loss," but we often are
at home now when they come.

My mother-in-law's visiting-list is a large one, and comprises the
whole of the "villa" people from Tilchester as well as the county
families. With the former she is deliciously patronizingly friendly;
they are all "me dears," and they talk about their servants and
ailments and babies, mixed with the doings of Lady Tilchester--they
always speak of her as the "Marchioness of Tilchester." They are at
home when we return the visits sometimes, too, and this kind of thing
happens: our gorgeous prune-and-scarlet footman condescendingly walks
up their paths and thumps loudly at their well-cleaned brass knocker,
and presses their electric bell. A jaunty lump of a parlor-maid in
a fluster at the sight of so much grandeur says "At home" (some of
them have "days"), and we are ushered into a narrow hall and so to a
drawing-room. They seem always to be papered with buff-and-mustard
papers and to have "pongee" sofa-cushions with frills. There is often
tennis going on on the neat lawn beyond, and we see visions of large,
pink-faced girls and callow youths taking exercise. The hostess gushes
at us: "Dear Mrs. Gurrage, so good of you to come--and this is Mrs.
Gussie?" (Yes, I am called Mrs. Gussie, Oh! grandmamma, do you hear?)
We sit down.

I have no intention of freezing people, but they are hideously ill
at ease with me, and say all kinds of foolishnesses from sheer
nervousness.

The worst happened last week, when one