e, I hardly cared to look at the
works at all, and it did not make me feel happy in my heart any more,
though, of course, I should have been very unhappy if it had been taken
away from me. And the same with new clothes and nice dinners and having
enough of everything. You soon get used to it all, and it does not make
you extra happy, although, if you had it all taken away, you would be
very dejected. (That is a good word, and one I have never used before.)
You get used to everything, as I said, and then you want something more.
Father says this is what people mean by the deceitfulness of riches; but
Albert's uncle says it is the spirit of progress, and Mrs. Leslie said
some people called it "divine discontent." Oswald asked them all what
they thought, one Sunday at dinner. Uncle said it was rot, and what we
wanted was bread and water and a licking; but he meant it for a joke.
This was in the Easter holidays.

We went to live at Morden House at Christmas. After the holidays the
girls went to the Blackheath High School, and we boys went to the Prop.
(that means the Proprietary School). And we had to swot rather during
term; but about Easter we knew the deceitfulness of riches in the vac.,
when there was nothing much on, like pantomimes and things. Then there
was the summer term, and we swotted more than ever; and it was boiling
hot, and masters' tempers got short and sharp, and the girls used to
wish the exams, came in cold weather. I can't think why they don't. But
I suppose schools don't think of sensible things like that. They teach
botany at girls' schools.

Then the midsummer holidays came, and we breathed again--but only for a
few days. We began to feel as if we had forgotten something, and did not
know what it was. We wanted something to happen--only we didn't exactly
know what. So we were very pleased when father said:

"I've asked Mr. Foulkes to send his children here for a week or two. You
know--the kids who came at Christmas. You must be jolly to them, and see
that they have a good time, don't you know."

We remembered them right enough--they were little pinky, frightened
things, like white mice, with very bright eyes. They had not been to our
house since Christmas, because Denis, the boy, had been ill, and they
had been with an aunt at Ramsgate.

Alice and Dora would have liked to get the bedrooms ready for the
honored guests, but a really good housemaid is sometimes more ready to
say "don't" than even a