are like me with my hair down, they must be quite nice, harmless little
persons. I admire my hair, there's so much of it; and at the ends, a
good long way below my waist, there's such a thoroughly agreeable curl,
like a yellow sea-wave just about to break. Of course, that sounds very
vain; but why shouldn't one admire one's own things, if one has things
worth admiring? It seems rather ungrateful to Providence to cry them
down; and ingratitude was never a favourite vice with me.

One would have said that the chauffeur knew by instinct what I liked
best to eat, and he must have had a very persuasive way with the waiter.
There was crême d'orge, in a big cup; there were sweetbreads, and there
was lemon meringue. Nothing ever tasted better since my "birthday
feasts" as a child, when I was allowed to order my own dinner.

My room being on the first floor, though separated by a labyrinth of
quaint passages from Lady Turnour's, there was danger in a corridor
conversation with Mr. Dane at an hour when people might be coming
upstairs after dinner; but he was in such a hurry to escape from me that
I had no time to explain; and I really had not the heart to make myself
hideous, by way of disguise, as I'd planned before his knock at the
door. As an alternative I put on a hat, pinning quite a thick veil over
my face, and when the expected tap came again, I was prepared for it.

"Are you going out?" my brother asked, looking surprised, when I flitted
into the dim corridor, with Lady Turnour's blue bag dutifully slipped on
my arm.

"No," I answered. "I'm _hiding_. I know that sounds mysterious, or
melodramatic, or something silly, but it's only disagreeable. And it's
what I want to ask your advice about." Then, shamefacedly when it came