d of human dust whose ultimate destiny was
immaterial. As my five days' visit, however, has not advanced me to that
pitch of wisdom, I am foolishly concerned in my mind as to her welfare,
and anxious to dissolve the triumvirate, Miss Griggs, Stenson, and
Antoinette, whom I have entrusted with the reins of government.

A month ago, in similar circumstances, I should have railed at Fate and
anathematised Carlotta from the tip of her pink toes to the gold and
bronze glory of her hair. But I am growing more kindly disposed towards
Carlotta, and taking a keen interest in her spiritual development.

An inner voice, an ironical, sardonic inner voice with which there is no
arguing, tells me that I am a hypocrite; that an interest in Carlotta's
spiritual development is a nice, comforting, high-sounding phrase which
has deluded philosophic guardians of female youth for many generations.

"What does it matter to you whether she has a soul or not," says the
voice, "provided she can babble pleasantly at dinner and play cribbage
with you afterwards?"

Well, what on earth does it matter?

July 21st.

She was at Euston to meet me. As soon as she saw my face at the carriage
window she left Stenson and flew up the platform like a pretty tame
animal, and when I alighted hung on my arms and frisked and gamboled
around me in excess of joy.

"So you are glad to have me back, Carlotta?" I asked, as we were driving
home.

She sidled up against me in her terrier fashion.

"Oh, ye-es," she cooed. "The day was night without you."

"That is the oriental language of exaggeration," I said. But all the
same it was pleasant to hear, and the soft notes of her voice coiled
themselves, as music sometimes dus, around my heart.

"I love dear Seer Marcous," she said.

I put my arm round her waist for a moment, as one would do to a child.

"You are a good little girl, Carlotta. That is to say," I added,
remembering my responsibilities, "if you _have_ been good. Have you?"

"Oh, so good. Antoinette has been teaching me how to cook, and I can
make a rice pudding. It is so nice to cook things. I like the smell. But
I burned myself. See."

She pulled off her glove and showed me a red mark on her hand. I kissed
it to make it well, and she laughed and was very happy. And I, too, was
happy. Something new and fresh and bright has come into my life. Stenson
is an admirable servant; but his impassive face and correct salute which
have hitherto gree