It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage employed by the grand family to whom, by Francis's advice, Lydia Cartwright was sent, some years ago, (by-the-by, I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, who asked after you, and sent her duty, and wished you would know that she had heard from Lydia),--this mantua-maker it was who recommended the lady's-maid, Sarah Enfield, who had once been a workwoman of her own. We saw the person, who seemed a decent young woman, but delicate-looking; said her health was injured with the long hours of millinery-work, and that she should have died, she thought, if a friend of hers, a kind young woman, had not taken her in and helped her. She was lodging with this friend now. On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufficiently pleased us to make my sister decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent a message to his lodgings, and were considerably surprised to have the answer that he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks; indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope resolved to make her decision without him. Hardly ever at home! What a lively life Francis must lead: I wonder he does not grow weary of it. Once, he half owned he was, but added, "that he must float with the stream--it was too late now--he could not stop himself." Penelope will, though. As we drove through the Park, to the address Sarah Enfield had given us--somewhere about Kensington--Penelope wishing to see the girl once again and engage her--my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis must have many invitations. "Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and respected. It will be the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very best society in the island. Still, he will find it a great change from London." I wonder, is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was? that he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society--like the Frenchman who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because "where should he spend his evenings?" O, me! what a heart-breaking thing to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend his evenings. We drove past Holland Park--what a bonnie place it is (as you would say); how full the trees were of green leaves and birds. I don't know where we went next--I hardly know anything of London, thank goodness!--but it was a pretty, quiet neighbourhood, where we had the greatest difficulty in finding the house we wanted, and at last had recourse to the post-office. The post-mistress--who was rather grim--"knew the place, that is, the name of the party as lived there--which was all she cared to know. She called herself Mrs. Chaytor, or Chater, or something like it," which we decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and accordingly drove thither.