His own family lives up in the dales, Pickering way. George stayed there once, when Lady Hermyre was alive, and builds a sort of little recitation on what he observed in his friend's house. Whatever isn't ormolu is buhl. There are six Portland vases along the cornice of the house containing the ashes of the family. Portraits of stiff horses and squat owners all the way up-stairs. Everything, including the butler, excessively _collet monté_, excepting the portraits of the ladies of the family, frowning ascetically over their own bodices _décolleté à outrance_. Sir Frederick is one of the most prominent racing men of Yorkshire, and the stables are model, but the house isn't. Prayers, bed at ten, no bridge, and early breakfast, and prayers again. I don't think George will ever be asked again, but I don't wonder Lady Scilly was able to get hold of Simon. _She_ doesn't frown over her _décolleté_ bodices, and she is amusing in her silly way. Simon hangs round like one of those young fox-hound puppies "at walk" that one sees in the villages, and Lord Scilly looks after his future and got him into the Foreign Office. I believe, though, Lord Scilly twigs about Ariadne caring for him, that Lady Scilly doesn't, or else she would not let him out so freely. She would be like most teachers and insist on her pupil's finishing his term. A wise woman would not have brought Irene Lauderdale down here, to preoccupy her. It will take her all her time to keep Simon away from Ariadne, if once I give my mind to it. I do. Ariadne and Simon don't make appointments, but they keep them. I am generally there, but I don't count. There is the Geological Museum on the Quay, which is never used for anything but casual appointments, and the old Library, where they have all the three-volume people, Mrs. Gaskell and Miss Jewsbury and Mrs. Oliphant. Ariadne and I read three a day regularly. We sometimes meet Simon on the quay, when we are carrying a whole hodful, and Ariadne won't let him carry them for her, she doesn't like him to know that she is reading all about Love. Simon doesn't really want to find out. He never wants very much anything. He never fights any point. That is what I like about him, and hate about Bohemians. They never glide or slip over things, they always scrape and drag and insist. But people who have got their roots in the country, as Simon has, are simple and not fussy and have no fads. I wonder what Simon thinks of George? It is the last thing he would tell me or Ariadne. He likes Mr. Aix, rather, but he would not, perhaps, if he had read any of his novels? Mr. Aix makes him laugh, and I like to hear his nice little curly laugh. If only Simon's eyes were bigger, he really would be very handsome. Ariadne's, however, are big enough for two.