“Pardon me, my dear Judith,” said I.  “But this is a story lying somewhat up one of the back-waters of history.  Where did you come across it?”

“I saw it the other day in a French comic paper,” replied Judith.

I really don’t know which to admire the more:  the inconsequent way in which the French toss about scholarship, or the marvellous power of assimilation possessed by Judith.

Before we separated she returned to the subject of Carlotta.

“Am I to see this young creature?” she asked.

“That is just as you choose,” said I.

“Oh! as far as I am concerned, my dear Marcus, I am perfectly indifferent,” replied Judith, assuming the supercilious expression with which women invariably try to mask inordinate curiosity.

“Then,” said I, with a touch of malice, “there is no reason why you should make her acquaintance.”

“I should be able to see through her tricks and put you on your guard.”

“Against what?”

She shrugged her shoulders as if it were vain to waste breath on so obtuse a person.

“You had better bring her round some afternoon,” she said.

Have I acted wisely in confessing Carlotta to Judith?  And why do I use the word “confess”?  Far from having committed an evil action, I consider I have exhibited exemplary altruism.  Did I want a “young savage from Syria” to come and interfere with my perfectly ordered life?  Judith does not realise this.  I had a presentiment of the prejudice she would conceive against the poor girl, and now it has been verified.  I wish I had held my tongue.  As Judith, for some feminine reason known only to herself, has steadily declined to put her foot inside my house, she might very well have remained unsuspicious of Carlotta’s existence.  And why not?  The fact of the girl being my pensioner does not in the least affect the personality which I bring to Judith.  The idea is absurd.  Why wasn’t I wise before the event?  I might have spared myself considerable worry.

A letter from my Aunt Jessica enclosing a card for a fancy dress ball at the Empress Rooms.  The preposterous lady!

“Do come.  It is not right for a young man to lead the life of a recluse of seventy.  Here we are in the height of the London season, and I am sure you haven’t been into ten houses, when a hundred of the very best are open to you—­” I loathe the term “best houses.”  The tinsel ineptitude of them!  For entertainment I really would sooner attend a mothers’ meeting or listen to the serious British Drama—­Have I read so and so’s novel?  Am I going to Mrs. Chose’s dance?  Do I ride in the Park?  Do I know young Thingummy of the Guards, who is going to marry Lady Betty Something?  What do I think of the Academy?  As if one could have any sentiment with regard to the Academy save regret at such profusion of fresh paint!  “You want shaking up,” continued my aunt.  Silly woman!  If there