We are so built, the most of us, that we consider we are wasting time unless our hands are moving. If a woman sits with her hands in her lap thinking great thoughts she is manifestly idle. But if she sits embroidering tasteless doilies and thinking of nothing, she has found something for her hands to do and Satan is foiled again. How often he is foiled these days. As I say, I do dislike to be read to, so while Ethel sits and crochets or knits or does fancy sewing, I sit by her side and read, and it is a very pleasant way of passing the time. Her embroidery is worth while, and I think there is to be found no such practice in language as reading aloud. I recommend it to all lispers and persons with uncertain pronunciations. While we were reading who should drive up but the Guernseas, the people who had heard our open air concert. I saw they were about to stop, so I laid down my book and went out to greet them. “Won’t you come into the house?” said I, and Ethel rising, seconded the invitation. “Thank you, no it is such a lovely day we’ll sit here. John, you may come back in twenty minutes.” John was their very elegant driver, and after hitching the horses to the stone post, he touched his hat and walked away. Ethel and I stood by the carriage and passed the commonplaces of the day for a minute or two and then the absurdity of the situation dawned on me. Here were our two distinguished friends doing us the honour of calling on us, and they were sitting in the most comfortable seats in a very ornate carriage, while my good wife and I stood at their feet as it were and received their call. I prefer _sitting_ at people’s feet, after the manner of the Jews of old, so I went into the house and brought out two dingy hair-cloth chairs, much to Ethel’s mortification, and we sat down on them. So sitting we were not more than abreast of the floor of the carriage, and we addressed all our remarks to those above who evidently had no sense of humour, for they never smiled at the situation once. “We want to know,” said Mrs. Guernsea, languidly, “whether you are living this simple life that Charles Wagner preaches.” “I haven’t read his book, but our life is simple. I think we are both very simple.” I looked at Ethel and she and I looked up to the perches above us, and I know that she was thinking that we _were_ very simple to allow a thing of this kind to happen, instead of insisting that our grand visitors come at least to the verandah and meet us upon an equal footing.