es from the general public. I am not at all the sort of girl who
makes notes, and I have told her so; but she says that I must at least
record my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial and
commonplace. She also says that one's language gains unconsciously in
dignity and sobriety by being set down in black and white, and that a
liberal use of pen and ink will be sure to chasten my extravagances of
style.

I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the Abbotts, our
ship friends, who left us yesterday. Roderick Abbott and I had had a
charming time on board ship (more charming than Aunt Celia knows,
because she was very ill, and her natural powers of chaperoning were
severely impaired), and the prospect of seeing London sights together
was not unpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is not in Aunt Celia's
itinerary, which reads: 'Winchester, Salisbury, Bath, Wells, Gloucester,
Oxford, London, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, York, Durham.' These are the
cathedrals Aunt Celia's curate chose to visit, and this is the order in
which he chose to visit them. Canterbury was too far east for him, and
Exeter was too far west, but he suggests Ripon and Hereford if strength
and time permit.

Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and when
they are thrown in contact with those who are born to be commanded all
goes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not.

So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbotts
in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn, its pretty
coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with its borders of
clove-pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-chestnuts, great
towering masses of pink bloom.

Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an
estimable lady tourist whom she 'picked up' _en route_ from Southampton.
I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because Aunt
Celia has the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content,
watching the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and
wide white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and
kissable. I should like to kiss the chambermaid, too. She has a pink
print dress, no fringe, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can't
leave that deformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair,
plump figure, soft voice, and a most engaging way of saying 'Yes, miss?
Anythink more, miss?' I long to ask her to sit