“Do you know where we are going?” he groaned. “To one of the grandest houses in England! Oh, Lord! I ought to have told you. You 'll need all the clothes you have down here. And--and a valet and maid will unpack the bags--oh, hell!” After more of the same kind of talk, he began to cook up some yarn to tell the valet. Suddenly all that is free-born in me rose to the surface. “Is it the thing for gentlemen to be afraid of the valet?” I asked my husband. “Does a servant regulate your life and set your standards?” Tom was quiet for several moments; then he took my hand and said very earnestly: “Mary, don't you ever lose your respect for the real things. It will save both of us.” After a while he added: “Just the same, I 'll have to lie out of this baggage hole.” He did, in a very casual, laughing way--such a positive set of lies that I marveled and began to wonder how much of Tom was acting and how much was real. Tom went back to London on the next train, and reached the “farm” with our baggage before it was time to dress for the eight-o'clock dinner. The dinner was long and stupid. After dinner the women went into the drawing-room and gossiped about politics and personalities until the men joined them, when they sat down to cards. I did not know how to play cards, and so was left with a garrulous old woman who had eaten and drunk over-much. It had been a long day for me. I was ill and tired. Suddenly sleep began to overpower me. I batted my eyes to keep them open. I tried looking at the crystal lights, but my leaden eyes could not face them. The constant drone of that old woman was putting me to sleep. I tried to say a few words now and then to wake myself. I felt myself slipping. Once my head dropped and came up with a jerk. I watched the great French clock. Its hands did not seem to move. I looked at Tom. He was absorbed in his game. I could not endure it another minute. I went over and said good night to my hostess who had spoken to me only once since my arrival. Drowsy as I was, I noticed she seemed surprised. “Oh, no,” I told her; “I am not ill, only very sleepy.” How good my pillow felt! The next morning Tom was cross. I had made a _faux pas_. I had shown I was bored and peeved and had gone to bed before the hostess indicated it was bedtime. It “was n't done” in England. “What do you do if you can't keep awake?” I asked. “You slip out quietly, go to your room ask a maid to call you after you have had forty winks, then you go back and pretend you are having a good time,” said Tom.