of course.”  He said:  “Merton?  Who’s he?” I answered, rather sharply:  “You ought to know, his name’s good at any theatre in London.”  He replied:  “Oh! is it?  Well, it ain’t no good here.  These tickets, which are not dated, were issued under Mr. Swinstead’s management, which has since changed hands.”  While I was having some very unpleasant words with the man, James, who had gone upstairs with the ladies, called out:  “Come on!” I went up after them, and a very civil attendant said:  “This way, please, box H.”  I said to James:  “Why, how on earth did you manage it?” and to my horror he replied:  “Why, paid for it of course.”

This was humiliating enough, and I could scarcely follow the play, but I was doomed to still further humiliation.  I was leaning out of the box, when my tie—­a little black bow which fastened on to the stud by means of a new patent—­fell into the pit below.  A clumsy man not noticing it, had his foot on it for ever so long before he discovered it.  He then picked it up and eventually flung it under the next seat in disgust.  What with the box incident and the tie, I felt quite miserable.  Mr. James, of Sutton, was very good.  He said:  “Don’t worry—­no one will notice it with your beard.  That is the only advantage of growing one that I can see.”  There was no occasion for that remark, for Carrie is very proud of my beard.

To hide the absence of the tie I had to keep my chin down the rest of the evening, which caused a pain at the back of my neck.

April 24.—­Could scarcely sleep a wink through thinking of having brought up Mr. and Mrs. James from the country to go to the theatre last night, and his having paid for a private box because our order was not honoured, and such a poor play too.  I wrote a very satirical letter to Merton, the wine merchant, who gave us the pass, and said, “Considering we had to pay for our seats, we did our best to appreciate the performance.”  I thought this line rather cutting, and I asked Carrie how many p’s there were in appreciate, and she said, “One.”  After I sent off the letter I looked at the dictionary and found there were two.  Awfully vexed at this.

Decided not to worry myself any more about the James’s; for, as Carrie wisely said, “We’ll make it all right with them by asking them up from Sutton one evening next week to play at Bezique.”

April 25.—­In consequence of Brickwell telling me his wife was working wonders with the new Pinkford’s enamel paint, I determined to try it.  I bought two tins of red on my way home.  I hastened through tea, went into the garden and painted some flower-pots.  I called out Carrie, who said:  “You’ve always got some newfangled craze;” but she was obliged to admit that the flower-pots looked remarkably well.  Went upstairs into the servant’s bedroom and painted her washstand, towel-horse, and chest of drawers.  To my mind it was an extraordinary improvement, but as an example of the ignorance of the lower classes in the matter of taste, our servant, Sarah, on seeing them, evinced no sign of pleasure, but merely said “she thought they looked very well as they was before.”