Before I slept, however, I put to myself this question, but found no anser to it.  How can it be that two people of Diferent Sexes can know each other well, such as calling by first names and dancing together at dancing school, and going to the same dentist, and so on, and have no interest in each other except to have a partner at parties or make up a set at tennis?  And then nothing happens, but there is a diference, and they are always hoping to meet on the street or elsewhere, and although quareling sometimes when together, are not happy when apart!  How strange is Life!

Hannah staid in my room that evening, fussing about my not hanging up my garments when undressing.  As she has lived with us for a long time, and used to take me for walks when Mademoiselle had the toothache, which was often, because she hated to walk, she knows most of the Familey affairs, and is sometimes a nusance.

So, while I said my prayers, she looked in my Check Book.  I was furious, and snached it from her, but she had allready seen to much.

“Humph!” she said.  “Well, all I’ve got to say is this, Miss Bab.  You’ll last just twenty days at the rate you are going, and will have to go stark naked all year.”

At this indelacate speach I ordered her out of the room, but she only tucked the covers in and asked me if I had brushed my teeth.

“You know,” she said, “that you’ll be coming to me for money when you run out, Miss Bab, as you’ve always done, and expecting me to patch and mend and make over your old things, when I’ve got my hands full anyhow.  And you with a Fortune fritered away.”

“I wish to think, Hannah,” I said in a plaintive tone.  “Please go away.”

But she came and stood over me.

“Now you’re going to be a good girl this Summer and not give any trouble, aren’t you?” she asked.  “Because we’re upset enough as it is, and your poor mother most distracted, without you’re cutting loose as usual and driving everybody crazy.”

I sat up in bed, forgetful that the window was now open for the night, and that I was visable from the Gray’s in my robe de nuit.

“Whose distracted about what?” I asked.

But Hannah would say no more, and left me a pray to doubt and fear.

Alas, Hannah was right.  There was something wrong in the house.  Coming home as I had done, full of the joy of no rising bell or French grammar, or meat pie on Mondays from Sunday’s roast, I had noticed nothing.

I fear I am one who lives for the Day only, and as such I beleive that when people smile they are happy, forgetfull that to often a smile conceals an aching and tempestuous Void within.

Now I was to learn that the demon Strife had entered my domacile, there to make his—­or her—­home.  I do not agree with that poet, A. J. Ryan, date forgoten, who observed: 

     Better a day of strife
     Than a Century of sleep.