"I'll get out here," said I.

We came to a stand again, and I got down.

"Goodbye," I said.

She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage
was tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for
dear life.

Of course, it's all nonsense. She's not the least suited to him;
she'd make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it
seems a little perverse, doesn't it? In fact, twice at least
between the courses at dinner I caught myself being sorry for
her. It is, when you think of it, so remarkably perverse.



A MATTER OF DUTY

Lady Mickleham is back from her honeymoon. I mean young Lady
Mickleham--Dolly Foster (well, of course I do. Fancy the Dowager
on a honeymoon!) She signified the fact to me by ordering me to
call on her at teatime; she had, she said, something which she
wished to consult me about confidentially. I went.

"I didn't know you were back," I observed.

"Oh, we've been back a fortnight, but we went down to The Towers.