plays jaunty hymn-tunes when I am out of the house. When he had
recovered he asked me, respectfully, how they were to understand each
other. I explained that he would either have to learn French or teach
Antoinette English. What they have done, I gather, is to invent a
nightmare of a _lingua franca_ in which they appear to hold amicable
converse. Now and again they have differences of opinion, as to-day,
over my taste for _veau a l'oseille_; but, on the whole, their relations
are harmonious, and she keeps him in a good-humour: Naturally, she feeds
the brute.

The duty-impulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by
marriage, led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the other,
Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne. She is of a different type from her sister-in-law,
being a devout Roman Catholic, and since the terrible affliction of two
years ago has concerned herself more deeply than ever in the affairs of
her religion. She lives in a gloomy little house in a sunless Kensington
by-street. Only my Cousin Rosalie was at home. She gave me tea made with
tepid water and talked about the Earl's Court Exhibition, which she had
not visited, and a new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I tried in
vain to infuse some life into the conversation. I don't believe she is
interested in anything. She even spoke lukewarmly of Farm Street.

I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless, bosomless. I
should say she was passionless--a predestined 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