could see the chair through it, beyond. "What would Alexander say if I were to wear such a thing!" This thought seemed to almost suffocate them both; they looked genuinely pained and shocked. "Of course it would be too tight for you," I said, humbly; "but it is otherwise a very good pattern, and does not tear when one puts up one's arms. Mrs. Carruthers made a fuss at Doucet's because my last set tore so soon, and they altered these." At the mention of my late adopted mother, both of them pulled themselves up. "Mrs. Carruthers, we know, had very odd notions," Lady Katherine said, stiffly. "But I hope, Evangeline, you have sufficient sense to understand now for yourself that such a—a—garment is not at all seemly." "Oh, why not, dear Lady Katherine?" I said, "You don't know how becoming it is." "Becoming!" almost screamed Mary Mackintosh, "But no nice-minded woman wants things to look becoming in bed!" The whole matter appeared so painful to them I covered up the offending "nighty" with my dressing-gown, and coughed. It made a break, and they went away, saying good-night frigidly. And now I am alone. But I do wonder why it is wrong to look pretty in bed, considering nobody sees one, too! Tryland Court, Monday, November 14th. Monday, November 14th. Monday, I have not felt like writing; these last days have been so stodgy—sticky, I was going to say. Endless infant talk. The methods of head nurses, teething, the knavish tricks of nursemaids, patent foods, bottles, bibs—everything. Enough to put one off forever from wishing to get married. And Mary Mackintosh sitting there all out of shape, expounding theories that can have no results in practice, as there could not be worse-behaved children than hers. They even try Lady Katherine, I can see, when the two eldest, who come in while we are at breakfast each day, take the jam-spoon, or something equally horrid, and dab it all over the cloth. Yesterday
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