I was an admiring reader of the Albums, the Souvenirs, the Keepsakes, and all that flood of Christmas-present lore which yearly irrigated England, with pretty covers and engravings; and floods of elegant twaddle—­the milk, not destitute of water, on which the babes of literature were then fed.  On this, my genius throve.  I had a little album, enriched with many gems of original thought and observation, which I jotted down in suitable language.  Lately, turning over these faded leaves of rhyme and prose, I lighted, under this day’s date, upon the following sage reflection, with my name appended:—­

’Is there not in the female heart an ineradicable jealousy, which, if it sways the passions of the young, rules also the advice of the aged?  Do they not grudge to youth the sentiments (though Heaven knows how shadowed with sorrow) which they can no longer inspire, perhaps even experience; and does not youth, in turn, sigh over the envy which has power to blight?

MAUD AYLMER RUTHYN.’

‘He has not been making love to me,’ I said rather tartly, ’and he does not seem to me at all impertinent, and I really don’t care the least whether he goes or stays.’

Cousin Monica looked in my face with her old waggish smile, and laughed.

’You’ll understand those London dandies better some day, dear Maud; they are very well, but they like money—­not to keep, of course—­but still they like it and know its value.’

At breakfast my father told Captain Oakley where he might have shooting, or if he preferred going to Dilsford, only half an hour’s ride, he might have his choice of hunters, and find the dogs there that morning.

The Captain smiled archly at me, and looked at his aunt.  There was a suspense.  I hope I did not show how much I was interested—­but it would not do.  Cousin Monica was inexorable.

’Hunting, hawking, fishing, fiddle-de-dee!  You know, Charlie, my dear, it is quite out of the question.  He is going to Snodhurst this afternoon, and without quite a rudeness, in which I should be involved too, he really can’t—­you know you can’t, Charles! and—­and he must go and keep his engagement.’

So papa acquiesced with a polite regret, and hoped another time.

’Oh, leave all that to me.  When you want him, only write me a note, and I’ll send him or bring him if you let me.  I always know where to find him—­don’t I, Charlie?—­and we shall be only too happy.’

Aunt Monica’s influence with her nephew was special, for she ‘tipped’ him handsomely every now and then, and he had formed for himself agreeable expectations, besides, respecting her will.  I felt rather angry at his submitting to this sort of tutelage, knowing nothing of its motive; I was also disgusted by Cousin Monica’s tyranny.

So soon as he had left the room, Lady Knollys, not minding me, said briskly to papa, ’Never let that young man into your house again.  I found him making speeches, this morning, to little Maud here; and he really has not two pence in the world—­it is amazing impudence—­and you know such absurd things do happen.’