That is the only want Mother will not feel after all those years buried away in Isleworth. Ariadne is now happily married, so it won't affect her, though I suppose that if this had happened a year ago, a mother-in-law spending her days in social ostracism would not have suited Simon's stiff relations. It might have prevented him from proposing. I see it all; Mother unselfishly waited. One thing really troubles me. Why does not Mother do some packing? I hope that she is not going to run away in that uncomfortable style when you only throw two or three things into a bag? A couple of bottles of eau-de-cologne, and some hair-pins, like Laura in _To Leeward?_ I, at any rate, have some personal property, and I shall do very badly without it in a dull, dead-alive place like Boulogne. But I will be patient. Whatever Mother does is sure to be right, even running away, which gets so dreadfully condemned in novels. George's new secretary is quite utilitarian and devoted to him, she is not so _farouche_ as Christina, Mr. Aix says, or so charming. George keeps her hard at work typing his autobiography, and doesn't go to see Father Mack any more. I asked him why he was "off" dear Father Mack, and he says last time he went to see him it was the Father's supper-time, and he saw a horrid sight. He could not think, he says, of entrusting his salvation to a man whom he had seen supping with the utmost relish off a plateful of bullock's eyes. Just like George to be put off his salvation by a little thing like that! Though I always felt myself as if Father Mack was not quite ascetic enough for a real right-down sinner like George. Tickets have come to George for the first night of Mr. Aix's play. George calls it Ingomar, which vexes Aix, because Ingomar is a certain old-fashioned kind of play that only needs a pretty woman who can't act, as "lead." "Who's your Parthenia?" he asked him. Mr. Aix answered, "Oh, a little woman I unearthed for myself from the suburban drama--the usual way." "Any good?" asked George casually. "I am telling her exactly what I want her to do, and she looks upon me as Shakespeare and the Angel Gabriel in one," said Mr. Aix, glancing across at Mother, who pursed up her lips and laughed. "I will take Tempe to your first night," said George suddenly. "A play of Jim Aix's for the child's first play!" cried Mother in a fright. "I shouldn't think of it." "Children never see impropriety, or ought not to," George said. "But if you don't wish it, I will take Lady Scilly and the Fylingdales instead. It will do the play good." "It's a fond delusion," said Aix, "that the aristocracy can even damn a play."