had nothing behind it but tile curtains.  He held his candle high and close to every picture in turn and, putting his head forward, scanned them with tenderness and love.  I saw Peter’s idiotic hat and stick under the Gainsborough and could not resist nudging him as “The Ladies Erne and Dillon” were slowly approached.  A candle held near one’s face is the most blinding of all things and, after inspecting the sloping shoulders and anaemic features of the Gainsborough ladies, my father, quietly humming to himself, returned to his bed.

Things did not always go so smoothly with us.  One night Peter suggested that I should walk away with him from the ball and try an American trotter which had been lent to him by a friend.  As it was a glorious night, I thought it might be rather fun, so we walked down Grosvenor Street into Park Lane; and there stood the buggy under a lamp.  American trotters always appear to be misshapen; they are like coloured prints that are not quite in drawing and have never attracted me.

After we had placed ourselves firmly in the rickety buggy, Peter said to the man as he took the reins: 

“Let him go, please!”

And go he did, with a curious rapid, swaying waddle.  There was no traffic and we turned into the Edgware Road towards Hendon at a great pace, but Peter was a bad driver and after a little time said his arms ached and he thought it was time the “damned” horse was made to stop.

“I’m told the only way to stop an American trotter,” said he, “is to hit him over the head.”  At this I took the whip out of the socket and threw it into the road.

Peter, maddened by my action, shoved the reins into my hands, saying he would jump out.  I did not take the smallest notice of this threat, but slackened the reins, after which we went quite slowly.  I need hardly say Peter did not jump out, but suggested with severity that we should go back and look for the whip.

This was the last thing I intended to do, so when we turned I leant back in my seat and tugged at the trotter with all my might, and we flew home without uttering a single word.

I was an excellent driver, but that night had taxed all my powers and, when we pulled up at the corner of Grosvenor Square, I ached in every limb.  We were not in the habit of arriving together at the front door; and after he had handed me down to the pavement I felt rather awkward:  I had no desire to break the silence, but neither did I want to take away Peter’s coat, which I was wearing, so I said tentatively: 

“Shall I give you your covert-coat?”

Peter:  “Don’t be childish!  How can you walk back to the front door in your ball-dress?  If any one happened to be looking out of the window, what would they think?”

This was really more than I could bear.  I wrenched off his coat and placing it firmly on his arm, said: 

“Most people, if they are sensible, are sound asleep at this time of the night, but I thank you all the same for your consideration.”