I read Walter Hobhouse's child story, and Mrs. ---- capped it with another. A little girl she knew asked whether, when she got to heaven, she might 'have a little devil up to play with.' Mytsie's nephew, when three years old, had a much prettier idea. On M. telling him that something had happened before he was born, he said, 'Then that was when I was still in heaven.' 'Yes,' answered M., 'but what was heaven like?' 'Oh, there I played with angels, and there was nothing but Christmas trees.' Are not the debates first-rate? It seems to me I never read so many good speeches as those of Balfour, Bryce, and Chamberlain. But the measure itself is absurd. We had a party on board the 'Royal Sovereign' on Tuesday last. It was a dance on deck, and was very pretty. Enormous profusion of flags and flowers all over the ship. I asked one of the midshipmen to dine with us at the 'round table;' he had shown us over one of the ships on a previous day, as I told you, and proved an awfully nice little fellow, curiously like P. N. W.[109] Suffers always horribly from sea-sickness, and gave a dismal account of his life at sea. By the way, _à propos_ of the B.A. I suppose you have heard that Lord Salisbury is to be President next year at Oxford. You had better be thinking whom to invite as guests, leaving a margin in case ---- should redeem his promise. I shall meet him between this and then somewhere and ascertain. March 12. There has been a most extraordinary change in the weather. Up to yesterday we had three of the calmest days that have been since I came. The sea was without a ripple, and Char. and I were last night hoping it would be like that when we start, as it would be sure to last till we got home. When, lo and behold, this morning there is by far the highest wind and sea I have yet seen. The spray is flying right over the rocks, once up to where Fritz got over the wall by the bathing-place. Rain in sheets. The 'Drummond Castle' will have an awful time of it. No hope of a letter to-day. March 16. Letters, such jolly good gossip that I feel disposed to follow the example of the 'distinguished man' who lived apart from his wife because he so much enjoyed her letters. And yet I am like a hound straining at his leash to get away. I _cannot_ read what it is that York Powell is going to have designed for us, it looks like 'booky flash.'[110] ... By the time you get this, it will only be another fortnight before you get me, and I believe you will get me in a wonderfully restored state of health. March 17. The weather is still the same. Tremendous wind and perpetual squalls of rain, 'the sea and the waves roaring,' also 'men's hearts failing them for fear,' for the occupants of the rooms we used to have never went to bed last night.