Number 19, who lives directly overhead, does not borrow my food or hire my services, but she does something far worse. Whenever I dare to poke a fire, or play on the piano, or shut a window, or let a door bang, as any ordinary domestic door is bound to bang in the course of a windy day, rap, rap, rap comes a premonitory knocking on the floor, as if to say, "Inconsiderate and selfish worm! How dare you attend to your own comfort at the expense of your neighbours overhead? Have the goodness to be quiet at once!" It's awfully unfair, because when they stoke their anthracite stoves, or throw their boots on the floor at 1 a.m. over my sleeping head, I could only retaliate by climbing to the top of my wardrobe, and knocking the whitewash off my own ceiling. Such are the ironies of life for the tenants of basement flats. Besides the shoe-dropping, I am often kept awake at night by the sound of angry voices. I sadly fear that Mr and Mrs 19 do not live together in the peace and harmony which could be desired. Subjects of dissension seem generally to arise about 10 p.m., and thereafter deep masculine growls and shrill feminine yaps alternate until the small hours. On these occasions I make up my mind never, never to marry. Especially a bad-tempered man. Especially _one_ bad-tempered man! But, of course, that question was settled long ago. Hurrah! I am getting on. A most exciting thing has happened. The Manners know Mr Thorold, and last night, when I was sitting with then after dinner (by request!) he came in to call, and we were introduced. He is a delicate, wearied-to-death, and wish-I-were-out-of-it-looking man, but when he smiles or gets interested his face lights up, and he is handsome and interesting. He looked profoundly bored at finding me installed by the fire, but thawed later on, and asked my advice on various domestic problems which lie heavily on his soul. "My housekeeper has such sensitive feelings. If I find fault, or even mildly suggest an improvement, she collapses into tears, and the children have a poor time of it for the rest of the day. Sometimes I think I must send her away, but I might get some one worse; and I am busy in the city, and have no time to look round." I did not feel capable of giving advice on this subject, but said soothingly:-- "I wish you would allow the little girls to come to tea with me sometimes. I have seen them coming in and out, and have longed to know them. I'm fond of children, and Mrs Manners will tell you that I can be trusted." His face lit up; he actually beamed. "It is good of you! They get so few changes. It would be the greatest treat! If I may I'll bring them myself next Saturday."