quite differently a day or two after. To-night, for instance, I think it is a mistake for you to lean against the Miss Traceys' new blue walls and watch us dance." 

 "I'm not sure that it isn't better than sitting at home and reading how well my old regiment is doing in South Africa. Besides, you know, I am writing a diary." 

 "Are you?" said Mrs. Fielden. 

 "You advised it," I said. 

 "Did I?" 

 When Mrs. Fielden is provoking she always looks ten times prettier than she does at other times. 

 "A good many people in this little place," I said, "have made up their minds to 'do the work that's nearest' and to help 'a lame dog over stiles.'  I think I should be rather a brute if I didn't respond to their good intentions." 

 "I don't think they need invent stiles, though!" said Mrs. Fielden quickly; "wood-carving, and beating brass, and playing the zither——" 

 "I do not play the zither," I said. 

 "—are not stiles. They are making a sort of obstacle race of your life." 

 "Since I have begun to write the diary," I said, "I've been able to excuse myself attempting these things, even when tools are kindly brought to me. And, so far, no one has so absolutely forgotten that there is a lingering spark of manhood in me as to suggest that I should crochet or do cross-stitch." 

 "You know I am going to help to write the diary," said Mrs. Fielden, "only I'm afraid I shall have to go to all their tea-parties, shan't I, to get copy?" 

 "You will certainly have to go," I said. 

 "I'm dreadfully bored to-night; aren't you?" she said confidentially, and in a certain radiant fashion as distant as the Poles from boredom. "No one can really enjoy this sort of thing, do you think? It's like being poor, or anything disagreeable of that sort. People think they ought to pretend to like it, but they don't." 

 "I wish I could entertain you better," I said sulkily; "but I'm afraid I never was the least bit amusing." 

 Mrs. Fielden relapsed into one of her odd little silences, and I determined I would 

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