ward character in that
case. I should have put him in the class with his own Tudor castle--not
that I've ever yet seen a Tudor castle, except in photographs or on
postcards. But I'd have said to myself: If he'd been born a house
instead of a man, he'd have been built centuries and centuries ago, by
strong barons who knew exactly what they wanted, and grabbed it. He'd
have been a castle, an _early_ Tudor castle, battlemented and surrounded
by a moat, fortified, of course, and impregnable to the enemy, unless
they treacherously blew him up. He would have had several secret rooms,
but they would contain chests of treasure, not nasty skeletons.

Now you understand exactly what I'd be thinking of the alleged Dragon,
if it weren't for Ellaline. But as it is, I don't know what to think of
him. That's why I describe him as elaborate and complicated, because, I
suppose, he must be totally different inside from what he seems outside.

Anyhow, I don't care--it's lovely being at the Ritz. And we're in the
newspapers this morning, Emily and I shining by reflected light; mine
doubly reflected, like the earth's light shining on to the moon, and
from that being passed on to something else--some poor little chipped
meteorite strayed out of the Milky Way.

It was Mrs. Norton who discovered the article about Sir Lionel--half a
column--in the _Morning Post_ and she sent out for lots of other papers
without saying anything to her brother, for--according to her--he "hates
that sort of thing."

I didn't have time to tell you in my last that she was sick crossing the
Channel (though it was as smooth as if it had been ironed, and only a
few wrinkles left in), but apparently she considers it good form for a
female to be slightly ill in a ladylike way on boats; so, of course, she
is. And as I was decent to her, she decided to like me better than she
thought she would at first. For some reason they _both_ seemed
prejudiced against me (I mean against Ellaline) to begin with. I can't
think why; and slowly, with unconcealable surprise, they are changing
their minds. Changing one's mind keeps one's soul nice and clean and
fresh; so theirs will be well aired, owing to me.

Emily has become quite resigned to my existence, and doles me out small
confidences. She has not a rich nature, to begin with, and it has never
been fertilized much, so it's rather sterile; but no noxious weeds,
anyhow, as there _may_ be in Sir Lionel's more generous and cultivat