Elizabeth says Lady Scilly is a daisy--that's what her name means, Paquerette. That's what she tells me to call her. I am proud to call a grown-up person by her Christian name, and a titled lady too, and it makes Ariadne jealous, which does her good, and keeps her down. Paquerette treats Ariadne on quite another footing, any one can see she is not nearly so intimate with her as she is with me. I go there at all times and seasons, and I accept no benefits from her. I won't. If she gives me things, I take them and give them to Ariadne. So I feel I may say and think what I like of her, while amusing myself with her, and listening to all the silly things she says. The funny thing is, I am always trying to be grown-up, and she is always trying to be childish. The other day when I got to Curzon Street about twelve--Lady Scilly had sent a messenger for me--she was still in bed in the loveliest pale-blue tea-jacket, down to where the bed-clothes came up to, and she was writing her letters in pencil on a writing-board, trying to squeeze a few words in round a great sprawling gilt monogram that took up nearly all the paper. There were three French books on the bed, they had covers with ladies with red mouths and all their hair down, and _La Femme Polype_ was the name of one, and _Madame Belle-et-m'aime_ another. Lady Scilly says she always gets up all her history and philosophy in French if possible, so as to improve her grasp of the language. There was also on the pillow a box of cigarettes, and a great bunch of lilies, that made me feel sleepy. There are daisies worked all over the curtains and the counterpane, and great bunches of them painted on the mirrors hanging head downwards, and about three sets of silver-topped brush things spread out on the dressing-table. As for photographs, I never saw so many in my life! There are about a dozen cabinets with "To darling, from Kitty London," and as many more with "Best love, yours cordially, Gladys Margate," and I have given up trying to count the ones of actresses! Then the men! There is one of the poet with the bumpy forehead, and wrinkly trousers, who wrote _The Sorrows of the Amethyst_, and one of the K.C. who wrote _Duchesses in the Divorce Court_--the Ollendorff man I call him; and one of the men who did the Gaiety play called _The Up-and-Down Girl_, which Lady Scilly acted in the provinces once, for a charity, till Lord Scilly stopped her. There he is in his volunteer uniform looking like a lamb. I do like Lord Scilly, and I think he's put upon. So I am as nice to him as I can be when I see him, which isn't often. He never comes into her room where I principally am. There's a desk in one corner, where she writes her little notes--I don't suppose she ever wrote a real letter in her life, her handwriting is so big it would burst the post-bag--and there are two sorts of racks on it, one to hold her bills that she hasn't paid, and that's got printed on it