But I have not done with my clothes yet.  A lady must keep a warm dress and jacket close at hand all through the most broiling summer weather, for a couple of hours will bring the thermometer down ten or twenty degrees, and I have often been gasping in a white dressing-gown at noon and shivering in a serge dress at three o’clock on the same day.  I am making up my mind that serge and ticking are likely to be the most useful material for dresses, and, as one must have something very cool for these burning months, tussore or foulard, which get themselves better washed than my poor dear cottons.  Silks are next to useless—­too smart, too hot, too entirely out of place in such a life as this, except perhaps one or two of tried principles, which won’t spot or fade or misbehave themselves in any way.  One goes out of a warm, dry afternoon with a tulle veil on to keep off the flies, or a feather in one’s hat, and returns with the one a limp, wet rag and the other quite out of curl.  I only wish any milliner could see my feathers now!  All straight, rigidly straight as a carpenter’s rule, and tinged with red dust besides.  As for tulle or crepe-lisse frilling, or any of those soft pretty adjuncts to a simple toilette, they are five minutes’ wear—­no more, I solemnly declare.

I love telling a story against myself, and here is one.  In spite of repeated experiences of the injurious effect of alternate damp and dust upon finery, the old Eve is occasionally too strong for my prudence, and I can’t resist, on the rare occasions which offer themselves, the temptation of wearing pretty things.  Especially weak am I in the matter of caps, and this is what befell me.  Imagine a lovely, soft summer evening, broad daylight, though it is half-past seven (it will be dark directly, however):  a dinner-party to be reached a couple of miles away.  The little open carriage is at the door, and into this I step, swathing my gown carefully up in a huge shawl.  This precaution is especially necessary, for during the afternoon there has been a terrific thunderstorm and a sudden sharp deluge of rain.  Besides a swamp or two to be ploughed through as best we may, there are those two miles of deep red muddy road full of ruts and big stones and pitfalls of all sorts.  The drive home in the dark will be nervous work, but now in daylight let us enjoy whilst we may.  Of course I ought to have taken my cap in a box or bag, or something of the sort; but that seemed too much trouble, especially as it was so small it needed to be firmly pinned on in its place.  It consisted of a centre or crown of white crepe, a little frill of the same, and a close-fitting wreath of deep red feathers all round.  Very neat and tidy it looked as I took my last glance at it whilst I hastily knotted a light black lace veil over my head by way of protection during my drive.  When I got to my destination there was no looking-glass to be seen anywhere, no maid, no anything or anybody to warn me.  Into