rd Street, he
remarked that he'd always understood Bond Street was the place.

"Not for school girls," explained dear Emily, who is a canny person.

"She isn't a school girl now. That's finished," said Sir Lionel. And as
she thinks him a tin god on wheels, she ceased to argue.

By the by, he has the air of hating to call me by name. He says "Miss
Lethbridge," in a curious, stiff kind of way, when he's absolutely
obliged to give me a label; otherwise he compromises with "you," to
which he confines himself when possible. It's rather odd, and can't be
an accident. The only reason I can think of is that he may feel it is
really his duty to call me "Ellaline."

I promised to write to Ellaline, as soon as I'd anything to tell worth
telling; and I suppose I must do it to-day; yet I dread to, and can't
make up my mind to begin. I don't like to praise a person whom she
regards as a monster; still, I've nothing to say against him; and I'm
sure she'll be cross if I don't run him down. I think I shall state
facts baldly. When I get instalments of allowance--intended for
Ellaline, of course--I am to send the money to her, except just enough
not to be noticeably penniless. I'm to address her as Mademoiselle
Leonie de Nesville, and send letters to Poste Restante, because, while
I'm known as Miss Lethbridge, it might seem queer if I posted envelopes
directed to a person of my own name. It was Ellaline who suggested that,
not I. She thought of everything. Though she's such a child in some
ways, she's marvellous at scheming.

I really can't think yet what I _shall_ say to her. It's worrying me. I
feel guilty, somehow, I don't know why.

Mrs. Norton suggested taking me out shopping and sight-seeing this
afternoon. Sir Lionel proposed going with us. His sister was astonished,
and so was I, especially after what she had said about his not being
interested in women's affairs. "Just to make sure that you take my tip
about Bond Street," he remarked. "And Bond Street used to amuse me--when
I was twenty. I think it will amuse me now--to see how it and I have
changed."

So we are going, all three. Rather awful about the gray serge and sailor
hat, isn't it? I felt self-respecting in them at Versailles, and even in
Paris, because there I was a singing teacher; in other words, nobody.
But in London I'm supposed to be an heiress. And here, at the Ritz, such
beautiful beings come to lunch, in dresses which they have evidently
been poured into