So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbotts in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn, its pretty coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with its borders of clove-pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-chestnuts, great towering masses of pink bloom. Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an estimable lady tourist whom she 'picked up' _en route_ from Southampton. I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because Aunt Celia has the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watching the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and wide white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and kissable. I should like to kiss the chambermaid, too. She has a pink print dress, no fringe, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can't leave that deformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure, soft voice, and a most engaging way of saying 'Yes, miss? Anythink more, miss?' I long to ask her to sit down comfortably and be English while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't. Sometimes I wish I could retire from the world for a season and do what I like, 'surrounded by the general comfort of being thought mad.' An elegant, irreproachable, high-minded model of dignity and reserve has just knocked and inquired what we will have for dinner. It is very embarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a Justice of the Supreme Court, but I said languidly: 'What would you suggest?' 'How would you like a clear soup, a good spring soup, to begin with, miss?' 'Very much.' 'And a bit of turbot next, miss, with anchovy sauce?' 'Yes, turbot, by all means,' I said, my mouth watering at the word. 'And what else, miss? Would you enjoy a young duckling, miss, with new potatoes and green peas?' 'Just the thing; and for dessert--' I couldn't think what I ought to order next in England, but the high-minded model coughed apologetically, and, correcting my language, said: 'I was thinking you might like gooseberry-tart and cream for a sweet, miss.' Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a sigh of delight as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only in English novels! 'Ye--es,' I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, 'I fancy we should like gooseberry-tart' (here a bright idea entered my mind); 'and perhaps, in case my aunt doesn't care for the gooseberry-tart, you might bring a lemon-squash, please.' Now, I had never met a lemon-squash personally, but I had often heard of it, and wished to show my familiarity with British culinary art. 'It would 'ardly be a substitute for gooseberry-tart, miss; but shall I bring _one_ lemon-squash, miss?' 'Oh, as to that, it doesn't matter,' I said haughtily; 'bring a sufficient number for two persons.' * * * * *