know because she asks us to do so. I say we should not. When she spoke
to me the other day about the lady whose mother was a housemaid, I
said, 'My dear Mrs. Horlock, it is very well for you to call on those
people. I approve of, I admire magnanimity; but what you can do I
cannot do. You have no daughters to bring out; every Viceroy that ever
came to India called on you, your position in the world is assured,
your friends will not think the less of you no matter how intimately
you know the chemist's wife, but you could not do these things if you
had daughters to bring out.'"

"What did she say to that?"

"She was just going out to walk with her pugs. Angel began to--you
know, and for the moment she could think of nothing else; when the
little beast had finished I had forgotten the thread of my argument.
However, I spoke to her about Grace; and she promised that she
shouldn't meet the fellow again. I can't think of his name, I get lost
in the different names, and they are all so alike I scarcely know one
from the other. I have had nothing but trouble since your poor mother
died. Your sisters give me a great deal of trouble, and you have given
me a great deal of trouble. We couldn't get on in business together on
account of your infernal slowness. No man is more for keeping his
accounts and letters straight than I, but your exactitude drives me
mad; it drives me mad; there you are at it again. I should like to
know what you are copying into that diary. One would think you were
writing an article for the _Times_, from the care with which you're
drawing out every letter; 'pon my word it isn't writing at all, it's
painting. You can't write for a pair of boots without taking a copy of
the letter, entering it into this book, and entering it into that book;
'pon my word it is maddening."