rson.

I was walking about by myself this afternoon. Aunt Celia and I had
taken a long drive, and she had dropped me in a quaint old part of the
town that I might have a brisk walk home for exercise. Suddenly it began
to rain, which it is apt to do in England, between the showers, and at
the same moment I espied a sign, 'Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualler.'
It was a nice, tidy little shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowers
in the window, and I thought no one would catch me if I stepped inside
to chat with Martha until the sun shone again. I fancied it would be
delightful and Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualler by
the name of Martha Huggins.

Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, for
I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely
lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. He
certainly has the loveliest manners, and his hair is a more beautiful
colour every time I see him.

And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness
and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like a
forward boarding-school miss; but I must say I don't think much of his
ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but if I were he, I
would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease--in fact, almost
anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common-sense, just
enough to guide me in the practical affairs of life.

[Illustration: "I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone."]

I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem quite
like an artist; or just a dilettante, but he doesn't look in the least
like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the
most probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only 'going to be' one of
these things, for he can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six.
Still, he looks as if he were something already; that is, he has a kind
of self-reliance in his mien--not self-assertion, nor self-esteem, but
belief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able, to
conquer circumstances.

Aunt Celia wouldn't stay at Ye Olde Bell and Horns here. She looked
under the bed (which, I insist, was an unfair test), and ordered her
luggage to be taken instantly to the Grand Pump Room Hotel.

Memoranda: