“Well, you see,” continued the Norwegian, evidently fearing that his visitor was shocked at the magnitude of the amount, “an ordinary young lady here would dress on fifteen or seventeen pounds a year, and, of course, some people do think the allowance I give my daughters somewhat excessive.” The Englishman, evidently more surprised, proceeded to explain that a _dame-d’honneur_ would have to dress more expensively than an ordinary young lady; besides, there would be an occasional visit to London, or some other capital, when new clothes would be required. So these two good, kind creatures put their heads together, and, hovering between the hundred pounds offered by the Britisher and the fifty suggested by the Norwegian, decided that seventy-five pounds a year would be ample. Norway was amazed at the magnitude of the sum. For a young lady to have seventy-five pounds a year to put upon her back was astounding. But the young ladies soon discovered that they were expected to dress for dinner every night, a social custom unknown in their experience; and before the year had run out, they had learnt that their allowance was as little as they could clothe themselves upon as maids-in-waiting to the Queen of Norway. It was pleasant, when I paid my last visit to Norway in 1910, to hear how popular our English Princess and her Danish husband had made themselves. Norway is poor, but delightful. Life on lentils and beans can be quite pleasant; but perhaps the proletariat may deny us even these luxuries. Demos may decree that all men and women not employed on manual labour are “waste products,” and to work or to die will be demanded of them, work being to Demos a purely physical action. CHAPTER V “THE TENDER GRACE OF A DAY THAT IS DEAD” Those early days of married life were very gay. We entertained tremendously. We went out enormously. We lived in a perfect social whirl. I enjoyed the privilege of wearing pretty frocks at luncheons, dinners, and dances; of riding in the morning, and driving a Park phaeton and pair of cobs in the afternoon, followed by two brown collies, given me by Sir John Kinloch of Kinloch. One, “Ruby” by name, went everywhere with me, and, clinging to her coat as she perambulated round the dining-room, my babies learnt to walk. They were a pretty sight, those two small boys in Lord Fauntleroy suits, tumbling about on the hearth with the long-haired red collies.