As I enter my own domain, I observe once more that my gate does not latch properly; all this time, when I have found it left open, I have reproached Peter. "Peter, you did not shut the gate." "No, Miss," rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. "You must be more careful." "Yes, Miss." This has happened several times; today I found that no power could make it really latch, and I confided the fact to Peter. "Yes, Miss, I knew it all along, Miss." "But why--" there I stopped; I should rather never know why than to try to penetrate the wooden impenetrability of mind of the British serving-man. There are no "whys" in their vocabularies, no "whys" in their minds, only "thus and so." Things are as they are; it has always been so; theirs to stand under the atlas weight of caste and class, prejudice and custom, not theirs to reason why, when they are blamed by their masters for things not their fault; theirs to go on digging, very respectfully digging. "Peter, will you get some one to fix it, please?" "Fix it, Miss?" He does not understand Americanese unless he chooses. "Put it in order." I am quite red and haughty now, and as dignified as Queen Alexandra. "I'll try, Miss. I expect that was broken a long time ago." Peter half salutes and goes on spading the earth for next year's flowers. "Peter," I say severely, "the most lamentable thing about you English is that you are always 'expecting' things that have already happened. It's both grammatically and politically wrong to expect things in the past." He has not the slightest idea of my meaning, but of course he assents. "You were a soldier once, weren't you?" "Yes, Miss. It's a nasty business." "Slavery," I venture, "would be worse." "I can't say, really," answers Peter. "Sometimes I wonder that you do not volunteer for this war, Peter," I suggest. Stolid Peter goes on digging. "There h'isn't any war, Miss!" "But Peter, what do you mean?" A fine look of cunning incredulity over-spreads Peter's broad face, as he stops and wipes his forehead, for this October day is warm. "No, Miss; it is just a scare got up by the 'Ouse of Lords to frighting the common people." "What for?" I ask stupidly. "To take their minds off the 'Ouse of Lords; we had threatened their power, 'm, and they wish to keep their seats. It is what you call a roose." "Peter," I say severely, "day by day we hear through the newspapers of terrible fighting going on all the time; how can you say such a foolish thing?" "The newspapers, 'm," said Peter, with frightful audacity, "are corrupted, bought by the 'Ouse of Lords. They say what they are hordered to." "The poor Belgians are pouring into this country," I say in wrath. "Beg parding, Miss, but I haven't seen a Belgian," answers doubting Peter. "Day by day we hear of recruits going by hundreds to the recruiting stations----" "I'm not denying that they may be making up the army, 'm, and that there may be war some day; but that a war is on, I deny, 'm."