"You must have lessons of Browne by and by, but not at present, I think. I don't wish you to spend too much time at lessons. What hours can you give her, Mr. Goodgroome?" Mr. Goodgroome pulled out his table-book, and after some consideration, decided that he could give me from eight to nine on Tuesdays and Fridays. "Why, that is rather early," said my aunt. "I cannot make it later," replied the professor, with an air of importance. "I must go to my Lady Sandwich's young daughters at nine, and to Whitehall at eleven. But I can take from five to six in the afternoon if it will suit better." "Nay, that is worse than the other," replied my aunt; so it was settled that I should begin my lessons at eight on Tuesday morning. I inwardly determined that I would spend as much as possible of the intervening time in diligently practising my fingering scales and trillos, so as not to discredit my mother's teaching. I soon found, however, that I should have little time to practise. My Aunt Jem was one of those people who find quiet the most intolerable of all things. When she was not out herself, she would have company at home, and when she had no one else to amuse her, I must devote myself to that purpose. Not that she was either selfish or unkind. She had the making of a noble woman in her, had poor Aunt Jem, and even the world for which she lived had not quite spoiled her. But reflection was not agreeable to her, and diversion was her very life. Our usual course of life was this: When my uncle was at home we breakfasted in my aunt's dressing-room; when he was not, in her bedroom, which she seldom quitted till ten or eleven o'clock, and where she would give audience to such tradespeople as it was convenient for her to see. Dressing was a work of time, thought, and much care, for, as my aunt herself observed, she was growing older, and as natural beauty waned, one must supply its place by art. The position of a patch was a subject of five minutes' consideration, and the rising of a pimple a cause for grave alarm. When the important business was at last concluded, we usually went out shopping. In one of these excursions, we met my old acquaintance Mr. Pepys, a meeting which resulted in his being invited with his wife to dine in Covent Garden. "He is a rising man and in a good deal of estimation at court," said my aunt, when we parted, "and his wife is a genteel, harmless little body. Besides, he was kind to your mother, and one must not forget old friends." I was much pleased, both at the attention shown to the good man for my sake, and also because I hoped I might hear news of Andrew, to whom my better self still clung. But Mr. Pepys could tell me little more than I knew already—that the ship had gone to the West Indies, and would probably also visit New England before her return, which would occur in about six months.