Both my boys were very happy at Eton. Many old Etonians were anxious about the future of the place at the time; for Dr. Sandridge had only just assumed the Headmastership, and his was said to be a reforming temperament; there was a rumour that he intended to abolish “Sunday Questions” and to shorten early School by five minutes—proposals which put everybody in arms against him. But the school seemed to prosper none the less. Both my sons (who were said by my friends to take after their mother in an extraordinary way) became good footballers, and Gervase only just missed his Eight. Meanwhile, Greylands, though I suppose I ought not to boast of it, became famous for its hospitality. More than one Conference with foreign diplomats has been held there, and from Saturday to Monday we nearly always had a full house. I have, curiously enough, a complete record of our visitors, for my Mother, among her old-world habits, retained a great devotion to the principle of “The Visitors’ Book,” in which our guests were expected to write, not only their names, but some quotation from a favourite author, or, if they preferred it, some original composition. Artists would occasionally draw pictures in it. I have the unwieldy volume before me now: let us take a peep through the pages of it. Here is an original drawing by Lennox the Futuribilist, “Lady Porstock’s new helico.” The machine is, of course, represented just after a bad crash—no, this is the right way up to hold it—and the mechanic is seen as a confused mass of drapery a few yards away. Those who only know Lennox as a painter of the _macabre_ would be surprised at this revelation of what he could do in his lighter vein. And a few pages on, strange contrast! there is one by Charmant in the neo-classical manner, “Lady Porstock as Artemis”—not drawn, I am glad to say, from the life. Visitors’ Books make strange bedfellows. Then here is poor Cynthia de Brignard’s[13] quotation, such a sad one! “All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.” I see that she came back again later after she had married that American man, Tarporley: she seems to have been in a more cheerful mood then, for she writes, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.” Then there is Archie Lock, not in his best form, but the helico was waiting, I remember, as he wrote it: This is (please do not get a shock) The signature of Archie Lock. If you forge it on a cheque, You will get it in the neck; Nothing causes so much rancour In the bosom of my banker: “Cheques,” he says, “we cannot pass; it’s No dam use; there ain’t no assets.”