I am told to remember dates.  Good heavens!  I never did such a thing in my life—­how am I to begin now?

I have asked Louis.  He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto supposed.  He remembers the date of the event, within a week or two—­and I remember the name of the person.  The date was towards the end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name (in my opinion a remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.

At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of Art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people in my neighbourhood.  That is to say, I had the photographs of my pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth, all about me, which I intend, one of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me mean anything) to present to the institution at Carlisle (horrid place!), with a view to improving the tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man).  It might be supposed that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family affairs.  Quite a mistake, I assure you, in my case.

However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me, and wanting a quiet morning.  Because I wanted a quiet morning, of course Louis came in.  It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell.  I seldom swear—­it is such an ungentlemanlike habit—­but when Louis answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning.  At any rate, I did.

This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings persons in the lower class of life to their senses.  It brought Louis to his senses.  He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me that a Young Person was outside wanting to see me.  He added (with the odious talkativeness of servants), that her name was Fanny.

“Who is Fanny?”

“Lady Glyde’s maid, sir.”

“What does Lady Glyde’s maid want with me?”

“A letter, sir——­”

“Take it.”

“She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir.”

“Who sends the letter?”

“Miss Halcombe, sir.”

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe’s name I gave up.  It is a habit of mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe.  I find, by experience, that it saves noise.  I gave up on this occasion.  Dear Marian!

“Let Lady Glyde’s maid come in, Louis.  Stop!  Do her shoes creak?”

I was obliged to ask the question.  Creaking shoes invariably upset me for the day.  I was resigned to see the Young Person, but I was not resigned to let the Young Person’s shoes upset me.  There is a limit even to my endurance.