that when I had tried to insert a knife in it, the contents of the plate had flown ceilingwards, and cook had looked at me sardonically happy. I hated the woman for that look. I went into the library with a little dab of jam on my cheek, and I was too lazy to worry about it. It was a big room, filled with exquisitely bound books. Dear mamma was very anxious that every volume should be beautifully leather-covered. The contents of the covers were a secondary consideration. It was the correct thing to have a library. It was a good place into which to usher people.
"I thought I would just run in to see if you had recovered from your fatigue of the other night," he said, after we had exchanged salutations.
"Is that why you wished to see mamma?" I asked demurely.
"Of course," he answered. "Mrs. Bouverie might prefer to give me the information herself."
"She couldn't," I declared rather boisterously, "for the simple reason that she never knew that I was fatigued. As a matter of fact I was not. I was bored. The only pleasant part of the even-
