Carlton Hotel, London,
_November 14_.

Dearest,

I've got it; it's mine; bought and paid for. It's so handsome that even
Aunt Mary is mollified. (I didn't mean that for a _pun_, but let it
pass.) Mr. Cecil-Lanstown has told me everything I ought to know (about
motor-cars, I mean), and now, after having tea with us, looking dukier
than ever, he has departed with a roll of your hard-earned money in his
pocket. It's lucky I met him when I did, and secured the car, for he has
been called out of England on business, is going to-morrow, and seems
not to know when he'll be able to get back. But he says we may meet in
France when he has his big racing automobile.

The only drawback to my new toy is the _chauffeur_. Why "_chauffeur_,"
by the way, I wonder? He doesn't heat anything. On the contrary, if I
understand the matter, it's apparently his duty to keep things cool,
including his own head. This one looks as if he had had his head on ice
for years. He is the gloomiest man I ever saw, gives you the feeling
that he may burst into tears any minute; but Mr. Cecil-Lanstown says he
is one of the best _chauffeurs_ in England, and thoroughly understands
this particular make of car, which is German.

The man's name is Rattray. It suits him somehow. If I were the heroine
of a melodrama, I should feel the minute I set eyes on Rattray that he
was the villain of the piece, and I should hang on like grim death to
any marriage certificates or wills that might concern me, for I should
know it would be his aim during at least four acts to get possession of
them. He has enormous blue eyes like Easter eggs, and his ears look
something like cactuses, only, thank goodness, I'm spared their being
green; they wouldn't go with his complexion. I talked to him and put on
scientific airs, but I'm afraid they weren't effective, for he hardly
said anything, only looked gloomy, and as if he read "amateur" written
on my soul or somewhere where it wasn't supposed to show. He's gone now
to make arrangements for keeping _my_ car in a _garage_. He's to bring
it round every morning at ten o'clock, and is to teach me to drive. I
won't seal this letter up till to-morrow then I can tell you how I like
my first lesson.

* * * * *

_November 15._

I _was_ proud of the car when I went out on it yesterday. Aunt Mary
wouldn't go, because she doesn't wish to be the "vic