wife would eventually wear my darlings on her fingers, and dangling from her ears. I could never get any more, because they were James’s wedding presents. Life and happiness were blotted from my imagination. “Georgie, my dear,” said the little voice at that moment, “can you come down?” A small step-ladder scraped gently across my shins. “Pardon me, one moment,” I was requested, and there was Georgie’s plump little kid leg dangling in front of my nose once more. That was the crisis! “Oh, damn Georgie,” I cried. “Go away, I’ve lost my bag.” The little kid leg drew up hurriedly into its place, and dear, kind, shocked Georgie peered down upon me from above. Her over-anxious husband had fled, and was, I suppose, sipping a little cold water in the lavatory in order to pull himself together after “such an exhibition.” “If I stay in this beastly train for a thousand years and pick it to pieces myself with a pair of nail-scissors, I will find that thing,” I said. “My dear, don’t upset yourself,” urged Georgie. “Shall I not call your husband?” The venturesome little boot was longing to get down, for the train was nearly at its destination, but, in my agitation, I forgot that I had overturned its only means of escape. When James came in and picked up the bag from behind the hold-all, I felt inclined to take Georgie in my arms and lift her down, but there was so little room in the compartment that I decided to smile at her instead, and say I “had found my bag, thank you,” leaving her where she was. I tactfully withdrew to the corridor and made no sign, even when I heard the pattering feet and consolatory “Georgie, my dear,” close behind the door of our den. James has a passion for sight-seeing, which I do not share. As soon as I know that there is anything to be seen I no longer want to see it. To have an alert, smiling man come up and say, “You want spik English; you come with me,” gives me another sort of Mrs. Simpson. She is a lively, early-breakfast Mrs. Simpson, full of exclamation points. She replies at once: “Ach! you spik English! that is capital! Rosbif! Goddam! I come vis you,” and off they go in ecstasies. An English guide who takes one over a ruin has a certain dreary charm. One can go to sleep and dream happily while he grinds away: “This portion of the Castle was erected in 1647. Notice the remains of moat and transept with traces of fine oriel window in memory of the seventh Lord. During the encounter with the rebellious forces Oliver Cromwell took possession of the east wing, when the enemy was repulsed with great loss. The marks on the bastion show remains of staircase leading to the old ’all which was reserved for the use of the ladies of the family during time of siege. In the museum will be seen famous portrait of wife of the tenth Earl, destroyed by fire in the year 1754--come along there, please, and mind your heads.”