a strange house--one can never find one's things. I bore with my best
professional smile the hearty chaff of my host (how I hate a hearty
man the first thing in the morning) and the audible remarks of the
dear children who were seated at intervals round the table. But
my patience well-nigh gave way when I found that our hostess had
carefully mapped out for her guests a list of amusements (save the
mark!) which extended not only over that same day, but several ensuing
ones.

I am not of a malice-bearing nature, but I do devoutly pray that she,
too, may one day taste the full horror of being tucked into a high
dog-cart alongside of a man who you know cannot drive; the tortures,
both mental and physical, of a long walk down dusty roads and over
clayey fields to see that old Elizabethan house "only a mile off;"
or the loathing induced by a pic-nic among mouldering and utterly
uninteresting ruins. All this I swallowed with the equanimity and
patience born of many seasons of country-house visiting; I even
interviewed the old family and old-fashioned cook, on the subject of
a few new dishes, and I helped to entertain some of those strange
aboriginal creatures called "the county." But the announcement one
afternoon, that we were to spend the next in driving ten miles to
attend a Primrose League _Fête_ in the private grounds of a local
magnate, proved too much for me. Shall you be surprised to hear that
on the following morning I received an urgent telegram recalling me
to town? My hostess was, or affected to be, overwhelmned that by my
sudden departure I should miss the _fête_. I knew, however, that
the "dyed" girl rejoiced, and in company with the objectionable man
metaphorically threw up her hat.

As I passed through the Lodge-gates on my way to the station I almost