“But what?” Robert would exclaim, a little exasperated to hear it suggested in his presence that I understand anything.

Mr. Blenkinson, senior, will rub his chin, wondering very much whether he is justified in allowing himself to go so far as to hint at the truth in this instance.  “But—­er—­well, Sir,” will be extracted from him at last, “we gather—­er—­we gather, Sir—­er’m—­her Ladyship insists.”

I see Robert’s face clear and I hear him say in quite a different tone, “Oh, I’ll soon manage mother for you.”  And off he trots home, and in a week or less I have to adopt his ridiculously ugly, obviously impracticable and damnably uncomfortable fashions—­tight trousers and high collars, no doubt.

Yes, that’s where Robert, and you, with your Robert, are leading me, confound you both.  It will be as bad as that; confound you both.

“Don’t speak like that, even in jest,” you’ll say brazenly.

“But damme, Mary—­”

“And I certainly will not have my name coupled with that sort of language, please.”

I shall appeal to Robert to bear evidence that I am the injured party, and not you.  Robert of course will stand by you, and you, worthless woman that you are, will sink your identity and sacrifice your soul and stand by TIGHT TROUSERS AND HIGH COLLARS.

And I shall get red in the face (and at the back of the neck).

And in the end I shall have to make good by taking you all out to the most expensive dinner, theatre and supper possible—­very nice for you two, no doubt, but what about me in those infernal trousers and collars?

It will right itself in the end, for I cannot believe your reason will permanently forsake you, even for that precious nut of a Robert.  Eventually we shall prefer, unanimously you and I, to slink about the back streets, clothed in our own ideas, rather than promenade the fashionable parts clothed in Robert’s.

Do you say to yourself that that supreme test, the sacrifice of Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Park, is too much?  Don’t cry, darling; it will never be as bad as that.  And why?  Because, according to that incredibly stupid young man, Robert, Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Park will then be the back streets, in which no decent people, except out-of-date, old-fashioned fogeys like ourselves, would ever consent to be seen.  So it is really myself who is still alone.  Yours, R.

* * * * *

LOVELY WOMAN.

If the casual gods send inquiring strangers into my camp, let them (the intruders) be civil, please, or at least be male.  Citizens I can at once wave away with a regretful nescio vos; foot-officers are decently reserved in their thirst for knowledge of an essentially Secret Service; but officers’ wives—­