I have seen several old friends and had lunch with Monica Cunningham. She has grown very pretty and still moves in the graceful way that made Charlie in the old days call her ’a Greek poem.’ She has risen to the occasion, as daddy always said she would, and done the splendid thing like all the other girls—exchanged luxury for hospital work at Hammersmith. She was very amusing about it. She said that at first she had visions of herself in a becoming uniform holding the fevered hands and smoothing the pain-racked brows of wounded warriors, but what she got was all the kicks and none of the halfpence. However, she seemed quite happy. ’Meg,’ she said, ’those men I nurse—they are "everything that really matters"—as your father used to say.’ And I wondered if she had learned that other bit of daddy’s, _i.e._ that the lack of grandfathers was not important then! I tried to get her to talk about Charlie Foxhill, for I’m certain he’s been in love with her for years. ’Oh,’ she said, ’he’s quite a decent boy,’ but I think her eyes said something stronger, and I was glad, because I’m devoted to them both. Then I took the Gidger to Hampstead to call on Aunt Amelia. In the old days I used to heave a sigh of relief when I came away from 7 Victoria Gardens, and things are still unchanged. One enters a house full of ’judgment’ and leaves the ’love’ outside in the garden. There is the same high moral tone about Aunt Amelia’s conversation. Her ’fydo’ does the things he always did. Her drawing-room is still decorated in tones of mustard and bestrewn with antimacassars. Only in the throes of a bilious attack can one appreciate the scheme of colour. My aunt greeted me with her accustomed coolness, but gave a peck to the Gidger’s cheek, which that small person promptly rubbed off; this was a bad start. The same sour-faced maid brought in the same uninteresting, microscopic tea. The Poppet, who is used to a square meal at 4.30, said clearly,— ’Muvver, is this all the tea we’re going to have?’ Aunt Amelia remarked acidly that she had bad table manners, and inquired if she had begun to learn the catechism. Here the Gidger said pleasantly, ’I should like to go home now.’ Whereupon Aunt Amelia observed that she seemed as badly brought up as most modern children, and that my blouse was very low, and my neck looked most unsuitable for a Bishop’s daughter. I wonder if my neck is unsuitable, and, if so, isn’t the Bishop the one to blame? ’Can you sing a hymn, child?’ said my aunt. ’No, but I can say a little piece that Captain Everard taught me.’ ’Can you, darling?’ I said, rather frightened. I knew some of Captain Everard’s ’little pieces.’ ’I don’t suppose your great-aunt would care for that.’ ’But I should like to say it for her,’ said the child obligingly. ’It’s what a poor man said when he was tired on Sunday.’ At the word ’Sunday’ Aunt Amelia thawed a little, so the Poppet recited,—