o are born to be commanded all goes as
merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not.

So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbotts
in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn, its pretty
coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with its borders of
clove pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-chestnuts, great
towering masses of pink bloom!

Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an
estimable lady tourist whom she "picked up" en route from Southampton. I
am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because aunt Celia
has the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watching
the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and wide white
collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and kissable! I
should like to kiss the chambermaid, too! She has a pink print dress; no
bangs, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can't leave that
deformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure,
soft voice, and a most engaging way of saying, "Yes, miss? Anythink
more, miss?" I long to ask her to sit down comfortably and be English,
while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't. Sometimes I wish I
could retire from the world for a season and do what I like, "surrounded
by the general comfort of being thought mad."

An elegant, irreproachable, high-minded model of dignity and reserve has
just knocked and inquired what we will have for dinner. It is very
embarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a judge of the
Supreme Court, but I said languidly, "What would you suggest?"

"How would you like a clear soup, a good spring soup, to begin with,
miss?"

"Very much."

"And a bit of turbot next, miss?"

"Yes, turbot, by all means," I said, my mouth watering at the word.

"And what for a roast, miss? Would you enjoy a young duckling, miss?"

"Just the thing; and for dessert"--I couldn't think what we ought to have
for dessert in England, but the high-minded model coughed apologetically
and said, "I was thinking you might like gooseberry tart and cream for a
sweet, miss."

Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a shriek of
delight as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only in
English novels!

"Ye-es," I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, "I fancy
we should like gooseberry tart (here a bright idea entered my mind) and