spinster. She has never drunk hot tea or lived in the sun or
laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once, at my wit's end for
talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook accosting a
pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that he
might know whether he was anybody in particular. She said,
without a smile, "Yes, it was astonishing how rude some people
could be."

And her godfathers and godmothers gave her the name of Rosalie.
Mine might just as well have called me Hercules or Puck.

She told me that her mother intended to ask me to dine with them
one evening next week. When was I free? I chose Thursday.
Oddly enough I enjoy dining there, although we are on the most
formal terms, not having got beyond the "Sir Marcus" and "Mrs.
Ordeyne." But both mother and daughter are finely bred
gentlewomen, and one meets few, oh, very, very few among the
ladies of to-day.

I reached home about six and found a telegram awaiting me.

"_Sorry can't give you dinner. Cook in an impossible condition.
Come later._ Judith."

I must confess to a sigh of relief. I am fond of Judith and
sorry for her domestic infelicities, though why she should
maintain that alcoholized wretch in her kitchen passes my
comprehension. If there is one thing women do not understand it
is the selection, the ordering, and the treatment of domestic
servants. The mere man manages much better. But, that aside,