people when there is a witching girl around. Vivacious young men
and benevolent officers have suddenly appeared out of nowhere,
spick and span in white duck and their winningest smiles.
Entertainments dovetail till there is barely time for change of
costume between acts.

But let me tell you, Mate, living up to being a mother is no idle
pastime, particularly if it means reviving the lost art of managing
love-smitten youths and elderly male coquettes. There is a
specimen of each opposite Sada and me at table who are so generous
with their company on deck, before and after meals, I have almost
run out of excuses and am short on plans to avoid the heavy
obligations of their eager attentions.

The youth is a To-Be-Ruler of many people, a Maharajah of India.
But the name is bigger than the man. Two years ago his father
started the boy around the world with a sack full of rubles and a
head full of ancient Indian lore. With these assets he paused at
Oxford that he might skim through the classics. He had been told
this was where all the going-to-be-great men stopped to acquire
just the proper tone of superiority so necessary in ruling a
country. Of course he picked up a bit on electricity, mechanics,
etc. This accomplished to his satisfaction he ran over to America
to view the barbarians' god of money and take a glance at their
houses which touched the sky. But his whole purpose in living, he
told me, was to yield himself to certain meditations, so that in
his final reincarnation, which was only a few centuries off, he
would return to the real thing in Buddha. In the meantime he was
to be a lion, a tiger and a little white bird. At present he is
plain human, with the world-old malady gnawing at his heart, a pain