The black beam that stretches low over our heads across the little room has a carved angel at each end, brought by the Home Ruler in pre-war days from Belgium; and, in the middle of the beam, is a hook from which at night a lantern is suspended, found in a curiosity shop in Kent. My nephew, aged seven, watched me as I cautiously bought it, and whispered to his mother: "Why does Aunt Mary buy the lantern when, for thirty shillings, she could get a model engine?" "Well, you see she does not want a model engine, and she does want a lantern, and it is not wrong of her to buy it as she has earned the money." Shrill amazement of nephew. "_What!_ Aunt Mary earned thirty shillings! How she must have _sweated_ to make as much as that!" * * * * * I must tell you that our cottage was once two cottages. That is why it looks so long and pretty from the lane, pushing back the roses from its eyes as it peers at you over its wooden fence. Consequently we have two green front doors exactly alike, and each approached by a short brick path edged with clipped box. Each path has its own little green wooden gate. One of these doors has had a panel taken out by the Home Ruler, and a wire grating stretched over the opening, as she has converted the passage within into a larder. Now, would you believe it? Chauffeurs, after drawing up magnificent motors in front of the house, actually go and beat upon the _larder_ door, when, if they would only look through the iron grating, they would see a leg of mutton hanging up within an inch of their noses--that is in pre-war days: of course now only sixpenny worth of bones, and a morsel of liver. And all the time we are waiting to admit our guests at the _other_ door, the _open_ door, the _hall_ door, the _front_ door, with an old brass knocker on it, and an electric bell, and a glimpse within of a table laid for luncheon, with an orange table cloth--to match the curtains! I have no patience with chauffeurs. They observe nothing. That reminds me that a friend of ours, with that same chauffeur, was driving swiftly in her car the other day, and ran into a butcher's boy on his bicycle. As I have already remarked, chauffeurs never recognize meat when they see it unless it is on a plate. The boy was knocked over. My friend saw the overturned bicycle in the ditch; and a string of sausages festooned on the hedge, together with a piece of ribs of beef, and a pound of liver caught on a sweet-briar, and imagined that they were the scattered internal fittings of the butcher's boy, until he crawled out from under the car uninjured. She did not recover from the shock for several days. * * * * *