And she looked angrily even at the capacious new wardrobe which took up one whole side of the room. “All right!” laughed Constance. “Then I’ll accept Aunt Langmoor, because you can’t find any room for my best frock. It’s a toss up. That settles it. Well, but now for Aunt Marcia—” She drew a letter from the pages of her French book, and opened it. “My dear Constance”—so it ran—“I should like to make your acquaintance, and I hear that you are at Oxford with your uncle. I would come and see you but that I never leave home. Oxford, too, depresses me dreadfully. Why should people learn such a lot of useless things? We are being ruined by all this education. However, what I meant to say was that Winifred and I would be glad to see you here if you care to come. Winifred, by the way, is quite aware that she behaved like a fool twenty-two years ago. But as you weren’t born then, we suggest it shouldn’t matter. We have all done foolish things. I, for instance, invented a dress—a kind of bloomer thing—only it wasn’t a bloomer. I took a shop for it in Bond Street, and it nearly ruined me. But I muddled through—that’s our English way, isn’t it?—and somehow things come right. Now, I am very political, and Winifred’s very churchy—it doesn’t really matter what you take up. So do come. You can bring your maid and have a sitting-room. Nobody would interfere with you. But, of course, we should introduce you to some nice people. If you are a sensible girl—and I expect you are, for your father was a very clever man—you must know that you ought to marry as soon as possible. There aren’t many young men about here. What becomes of all the young men in England, I’m sure I don’t know. But there are a few—and quite possible. There are the Kenbarrows, about four miles off—a large family—_nouveaux riches_—the father made buttons, or something of the kind. But the children are all most presentable, and enormously rich. And, of course, there are the Fallodens—quite near—Mr. and Lady Laura, Douglas, the eldest son, a girl of seventeen, and two children. You’ll probably see Douglas at Oxford. Oh, I believe Sir Arthur Falloden, _père_, told me the other day you had already met him somewhere. Winifred and I don’t like Douglas. But that’s neither here nor there. He’s a magnificent creature, who can’t be bothered with old ladies. He’ll no doubt make himself agreeable to you—_cela va sans dire_. I don’t altogether like what I hear sometimes about the Fallodens. Of course Sir Arthur’s very rich, but they say he’s been speculating enormously, and that he’s been losing a good deal of money lately. However, I don’t suppose it matters. Their place, Flood Castle, is really splendid—old to begin with, and done up! They have copied the Americans and given every room a bathroom. Absurd extravagance! And think of the plumbing! It was that kind of thing gave the Prince of Wales typhoid. I hate drains!