Though it was very nice for the first minute or two, I was so dreadfully hungry that I couldn’t really enjoy it; I could only think of roast chickens and things like that. I did try not to; I looked out of the window to see the country and I tied my sash very tight like the Red Indians, but it wasn’t any use. It isn’t true either, what they say in books, that starving people suffer most from thirst, because I hardly wanted to drink at all. At last, though, we did get to the house, and the servant showed me into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Charlton was sitting in a very stiff chair. She got up and kissed me, and asked me how my Mother and Father were, but she didn’t seem to make me feel at all nice. I sat down in another stiff chair and seemed to get miserabler and miserabler, I don’t know why, because they had brought me my supper, though I’d have liked more. I was quite glad when Mrs. Charlton asked me at what hour I went to bed, which was very funny, because I’d never wanted people to talk about bedtime before. Upstairs, though, it was more miserable than ever. I never thought paying visits would feel like that. If even our cook at home could have come to tuck me up in her crossest temper, I’d have been glad. It seemed so dreadful, I really didn’t know what I should do, till I thought of Mother’s little penwiper, that she’d lent me because I haven’t got one in my writing-case; so I took that into bed, and cuddled it, and then I felt better. The next morning I woke up very early and the sun was shining and it was all much nicer. I began to read a book I’d brought from home that was called “_Vanity Fair_”; it is an interesting book, but rather muddly, and the girl in it, Amelia, is a gump. That’s what Humphrey and I call people who are silly like that. I’d read quite a lot by the time the breakfast bell rang and I took it down to go on with afterwards. Mrs. Charlton was sitting in an armchair at the head of the table, and all the servants were there for prayers. They seemed to be all waiting for me. Just as if this wasn’t bad enough, the minute I got in Mrs. Charlton called out, “What is that book that you have got in your hand?” Well, when I showed it to her she seemed quite cross. She said, “Has your Mother given you permission to read this?” in the most severe way. I said “Yes,” because Mother had never told us we mayn’t read anything. Then I thought that as Mother hadn’t mentioned this particular book, perhaps that wasn’t true, so I said “No.” Then I remembered Mother had said once that we might always take magazines, and this was on that shelf, so I said “Yes,” again. I said, “It’s got paper covers, you see.” “Don’t prevaricate, child,” Mrs. Charlton said, “I’m sorry to see you are not more straightforward.” She went and locked up my book, which I did think a shame, and the prayers began. It was horrid her thinking I told stories, and very silly, just when I was trying to be so partic’larly truthful.