Other characters had been sketched, some of them to be abandoned after a few bold touches: the difficulty of avoiding too close a portraiture to the living original having apparently proved irksome. Against one such, evidently an attempt to help Dick see himself in his true colours, I find this marginal, note in pencil: “Better not. Might make him ratty.” Opposite to another—obviously of Mrs. St. Leonard, and with instinct for alliteration—is scribbled; “Too terribly true. She’d twig it.” Another character is that of a gent: “With a certain gift. For telling stories. Some of them _not bad_.” A promising party, on the whole. Indeed, one might say, judging from description, a quite rational person: “_When not on the rantan_. But inconsistent.” He is the grown-up of a little girl: “Not beautiful. But strangely attractive. Whom we will call Enid.” One gathers that if all the children had been Enids, then surely the last word in worlds had been said. She has only this one grown-up of her very own; but she makes it her business to adopt and reform all the incorrigible old folk the other children have despaired of. It is all done by kindness. “She is _ever_ patient. And just.” Prominent among her numerous _protégées_ is a military man, an elderly colonel; until she took him in hand, the awful example of what a grown-up might easily become, left to the care of incompetent infants. He defies his own child, a virtuous youth, but “lacking in sympathy;” is rude to his little nephews and nieces; a holy terror to his governess. He uses wicked words, picked up from retired pirates. “Of course without understanding. Their terrible significance.” He steals the Indian’s fire-water. “What few can partake of. With impunity.” Certainly not the Colonel. “Can this be he! This gibbering wreck!” He hides cigars in a hollow tree, and smokes on the sly. He plays truant. Lures other old gentlemen away from their lessons to join him. They are discovered in the woods, in a cave, playing whist for sixpenny points. Does Enid storm and bullyrag; threaten that if ever she catches him so much as looking at a card again she will go straight out and tell the dragon, who will in his turn be so shocked that in all probability he will decide on coming back with her to kill and eat the Colonel on the spot? No. “Such are not her methods.” Instead she smiles: “indulgently.” She says it is only natural for grown-ups to like playing cards. She is not angry with him. And there is no need for him to run away and hide in a nasty damp cave. “_She herself will play whist with him_.” The effect upon the Colonel is immediate: he bursts into tears. She plays whist with him in the garden: “After school hours. When he has been _good_.” Double dummy, one presumes. One leaves the Colonel, in the end, cured of his passion for whist. Whether as the consequence of her play or her influence the “Rough Notes” give no indication.