He let the boat go round instantly.  This was enough for me.  It struck me then that when papa had said to mama (as he did in that absurd situation) ‘He is fifty,’ Mr. Pollingray must have heard it across the river, for he walked away hurriedly.  He came back, it is true, with the boat, but I have my own ideas.  He is always ready to do a service, but on this occasion I think it was an afterthought.  I shall not venture to call him ‘Godpapa’ again.

Indeed, if I have a desire, it is that I may be blind to people’s weakness.  My insight is inveterate.  Papa says he has heard Mr. Pollingray boast of his age.  If so, there has come a change over him.  I cannot be deceived.  I see it constantly.  After my unfortunate speech, Mr. Pollingray shunned our house for two whole weeks, and scarcely bowed to us when coming out of church.  Miss Pollingray idolises him—­spoils him.  She says that he is worth twenty of Charles.  Nous savons ce que nous savons, nous autres.  Charles is wild, but Charles would be above these littlenesses.  How could Miss Pollingray comprehend the romance of Charles’s nature?

My sister Evelina is now Mr. Pollingray’s favourite.  She could not say Godpapa to him, if she would.  Persons who are very much petted at home, are always establishing favourites abroad.  For my part, let them praise me or not, I know that I can do any thing I set my mind upon.  At present I choose to be frivolous.  I know I am frivolous.  What then?  If there is fun in the world am I not to laugh at it?  I shall astonish them by and by.  But, I will laugh while I can.  I am sure, there is so much misery in the world, it is a mercy to be able to laugh.  Mr. Pollingray may think what he likes of me.  When Charles tells me that I must do my utmost to propitiate his uncle, he cannot mean that I am to refrain from laughing, because that is being a hypocrite, which I may become when I have gone through all the potential moods and not before.

It is preposterous to suppose that I am to be tied down to the views of life of elderly people.

I dare say I did laugh a little too much the other night, but could I help it?  We had a dinner party.  Present were Mr. Pollingray, Mrs. Kershaw, the Wilbury people (three), Charles, my brother Duncan, Evelina, mama, papa, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. (put them last for emphasis) Romer Pattlecombe, Mrs. Pattlecombe (the same number of syllables as Pollingray, and a ‘P’ to begin with) is thirty-one years her husband’s junior, and she is twenty-six; full of fun, and always making fun of him, the mildest, kindest, goody old thing, who has never distressed himself for anything and never will.  Mrs. Romer not only makes fun, but is fun.  When you have done laughing with her, you can laugh at her.  She is the salt of society in these parts.  Some one, as we were sitting on the lawn after dinner, alluded to the mishap to papa and mama, and mama, who has never forgiven Mr. Pollingray for having seen her in her ridiculous plight, said that men were in her opinion greater gossips than women.  ‘That is indisputable, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pollingray, he loves to bewilder her; ‘only, we never mention it.’