least she did until a happier plan suggested itself:  now she writes English in German text.  It answers perfectly; but it is having a great effect on Parsons, quite undermining her constitution, I fear, especially when important things are happening at ‘The Court,’ where I often go.  I sometimes wickedly slip one of Blanche’s letters under the pin-cushion, as if with the intention of concealing it, and I have so enjoyed seeing Parsons whip it under her apron when she got the chance, knowing that she could not make out a single word.  She really looked quite green afterward for a week:  pure chagrin.”

“I am sure I have done everything that I could think of to keep my letters from my man,” said Sir Robert, “but quite without success.  I think he finds my correspondence a little dull sometimes, as compared with that of a former place.  He came to me from the greatest scamp in England; and I can fancy that the letters there were very various and diverting.  My own must be altogether too ponderous and respectable for a taste formed on sensational models.”

“Well, all I have got to say is that if I caught a servant of mine at that little game I’d make my letters uncommonly interesting reading to him; and if the style suited him, I’d see that he got a little leisure in the penitentiary to copy them and impress them on his mind.  Do you mean to say that you don’t even discharge them for it?” said Mr. Ketchum, “I never heard anything like it!”

“One could discharge the culprit easily enough; the trouble is that his successor or successors would do exactly the same thing,” replied Sir Robert.  “When the Barons rose, they neglected to provide a remedy for an unforeseen nuisance, and I suppose this literary partnership of Master & Servant, Limited, will always exist.  I wrote a note once to Beazely (my man), addressed to myself, and told him that if he disapproved of the Conservative tone of my correspondence, as was likely, seeing that he was a Radical, I would make an effort to get at Dilke or Bright, with a view to an occasional note at least.  The envelope had been resealed, I saw when it reached me, but Beazely had no more expression in his face than the Sphinx.  My letters, however, were not tampered with for about a week.”

Mrs. Ketchum senior became fluent in her amazement:  “How perfectly dreadful!  Good gracious!  What did you do about your husband’s letters?  The idea of sharing his letters with a servant!”

She was addressing Mrs. Sykes, who said very cheerfully in reply, “Oh, there was never anything in his letters, except warnings to put the servants at board-wages before I went away, and look to expenditures, and not ask him for any more money soon.  I didn’t mind much.  I was rather ashamed of the spelling,—­that was all.  Poor dear Guy never could spell, and I never read anything so dull as his letters,—­the same thing over and over again, till it hardly seemed worth while to open them, only for knowing what he