Augustus is having some rooms arranged for me, so that I, too, shall have a “budwar” for myself.  He has not consulted my taste; it is all to be a surprise.  And an army of workmen are still in the house, and I have caught glimpses of brilliant, new, gilt chairs and terra-cotta and buffish brocade (I loathe those colors) being carried up.

“Then I’ll be able to have you more to myself in the evening,” said Augustus.  “The drawing-rooms are too big and the mater’s budwar is too small, and you hate my den, so I hope this will please you.”

I said “Thank you,” without enthusiasm.  I would prefer the company of my mother-in-law or Amelia to being more alone with Augustus.  The crimson-satin chairs are so uncomfortable that now he leaves us almost directly after dinner to lounge in his “den,” and I have to go there and say good-night to him.  The place smells of stale smoke, some particularly strong, common tobacco he will have in a pipe.  He gets into a soiled, old, blue smoking-coat, and sits there reading the comic papers, huddled in a deep arm-chair, a whiskey-and-soda mixed ready by his side.  He is generally half-asleep when I get there.  I do not stay five minutes if I can help it; it is not agreeable, the smell of whiskey.

There are so few books in the house.  The first instalment of my handsome “allowance” will soon be paid me, and then I will have books of my own.  I shall feel like a servant receiving the first month’s wages in a new place—­a miserable beginner of a servant who has never been “out” before.  I feel I have earned them, though—­earned them with hard work.

Just this last month numbers of people have been to call on me.  They left only cards at first, because of my “sad loss,” but we often are at home now when they come.

My mother-in-law’s visiting-list is a large one, and comprises the whole of the “villa” people from Tilchester as well as the county families.  With the former she is deliciously patronizingly friendly; they are all “me dears,” and they talk about their servants and ailments and babies, mixed with the doings of Lady Tilchester—­they always speak of her as the “Marchioness of Tilchester.”  They are at home when we return the visits sometimes, too, and this kind of thing happens:  our gorgeous prune-and-scarlet footman condescendingly walks up their paths and thumps loudly at their well-cleaned brass knocker, and presses their electric bell.  A jaunty lump of a parlor-maid in a fluster at the sight of so much grandeur says “At home” (some of them have “days"), and we are ushered into a narrow hall and so to a drawing-room.  They seem always to be papered with buff-and-mustard papers and to have “pongee” sofa-cushions with frills.  There is often tennis going on on the neat lawn beyond, and we see visions of large, pink-faced girls and callow youths taking exercise.  The hostess gushes at us:  “Dear Mrs. Gurrage, so good of you to come—­and this is Mrs. Gussie?” (Yes, I am called Mrs. Gussie, Oh! grandmamma, do you hear?) We sit down.