, because Mrs. James came in, ready to start. We had been
standing together in the little sitting-room at the back of the house
while she gave last directions to Miss Hubbell. And I had on my new
serge, of course, with a blouse more fit for an angel than Barrie
MacDonald; and a gray coat and a gray hood with a long gray veil
floating out from it--all the same gray as the car, and chosen to match.
I couldn't help thinking, when I put on the hood before the curate's
looking-glass, that in spite of a green crack across my face and one
purple splash on my eye (it's a very antique glass, not used to girls'
complexions) I really wasn't so bad. Oh, if only mother is pleased! But
of course all mothers must be pleased with their children. One reads a
great deal in books about mother's love.

We bought two small trunks yesterday, one for Mrs. James and one for me,
of the same gray colour as our cloaks, both made especially for a
motor-car: and Mr. Somerled has a gray trunk too, smaller than mine,
also a thing he calls a suit-case. This morning he brought us each a
present of a little gray handbag, fitted with brushes and combs and a
mirror, and tiny bottles for eau-de-cologne. My fittings look like gold,
though I suppose of course they are only gilded; and Mrs. James's are
silver. She thought it would hurt his feelings if we refused to accept
his presents, though she was brought up to believe that a lady must
never take anything from a gentleman except books, sweets, and flowers.
However, she says she has often found it difficult to conduct life
according to rules of etiquette, as there are so many complications
they've forgotten to put in.

It was only half-past eight when we started, for we wanted to see the
Cathedral and the Castle. We were going to the Cathedral first, and on
the way we had to pass a big motor garage which has always made my heart
beat just to see, whenever Heppie and I have come to town shopping. I
used to wonder what it would be like to sail through the wide doorway in
a car of my own. Poor me, in my "glass retort," with little chance, it
seemed, of escaping from the dragon to travel in any sort of mobile
except the pillow-mobile into which I used often, to jump at night, and
flash away to far-off countries of dreamland.

Now, poking its large nose out of that garage was a gray motor (but not
so nice a gray as ours) conducted by a wisp of a chauffeur. He was
driving two passengers, and I bounced on the sp