As regards my work, I have discovered that in London it is as difficult to get to know one's neighbours as it is to avoid knowing them in the country. In my rustic ignorance I had imagined that all the inhabitants of the "Mansions" would be keenly interested in the advent of a new tenant, and curious about her personality. I imagined them talking together about me, and saying, "Have you seen the new lady in the basement? What does she look like? When shall you call?" but in reality no one cared a jot. There has been another removal since I came, and I overheard one or two comments in the hall. "Bother these removals. They make such a mess!" "Those tiresome vans block the way for my pram!" Not one word of interest in the removal itself! Not one word of inquiry as to the newcomers. So far as interest or sympathy went, each little shut-in-dwelling is as isolated as a lighthouse. For the past few weeks I have been haunted by a vision of myself beating an ignominious retreat, after having altogether failed in my mission. To console myself I began a second course of Red Cross training, to revive what I had learnt two years before. Perhaps some day one of the tenants will be ill, or have an accident, which will give me a chance. Watching the stream of children coming in and out of the "Mansions," I almost found it in my heart to wish that one of them would tumble down and break, not his crown, but just some minor, innocent, little bone, so that his mother could behold how promptly and efficiently I could render first aid! A month passed by--four long, lonely weeks. Not a line from Charmion. Not a line from Delphine. Not a line from the big, blustering lover who had vowed never, no, never, to give up the pursuit. With one and all, out of sight was apparently out of mind, and I am the sort of woman who needs to be remembered and appreciated, and who feels reduced to the lowest ebb when nobody takes any notice. I wondered what Charmion was doing, I wondered how Delphine was faring, I wondered--did he really care so much? Would he go on caring? Suppose I had cared, too? Then another long, lonely day came to an end, and I crawled into bed and cried. Whatever my virtues may be, I am afraid I am not strong-minded! But at the end of a month--hurrah! I started full tilt into a new and engrossing profession, a profession which I may really claim to have invented, and which offers a wide field for idle women. It is healthy, moreover, and in its pursuit its followers can be of immense service to their overtaxed sisters. The vocation is called "Pram-Pushing for Penurious Parents," and it consists simply of taking charge of Tommy, or Bobby, or Baby for his morning or afternoon promenade, and thereby setting his mother free to take a much-needed rest!