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on which he plays jaunty hymntunes when I am out of the house.
When he had recovered he asked me, respectfully, how they were to
understand each other. I explained that he would either have to
learn French or teach Antoinette English. What they have done, I
gather, is to invent a nightmare of a _lingua franca_ in which
they appear to hold amicable converse. Now and again they have
differences of opinion, as today, over my taste for _veau a
l'oseille_; but, on the whole, their relations are harmonious,
and she keeps him in a goodhumour: Naturally, she feeds the
brute.
The dutyimpulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by
marriage, led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the
other, Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne. She is of a different type from her
sisterinlaw, being a devout Roman Catholic, and since the
terrible affliction of two years ago has concerned herself more
deeply than ever in the affairs of her religion. She lives in a
gloomy little house in a sunless Kensington bystreet. Only my
Cousin Rosalie was at home. She gave me tea made with tepid
water and talked about the Earl's Court Exhibition, which she had
not visited, and a new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I
tried in vain to infuse some life into the conversation. I don't
believe she is interested in anything. She even spoke lukewarmly
of Farm Street.
I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless,
bosomless. I should say she was passionlessa predestined
spinster. She has never drunk hot tea or lived in the sun or
laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once, at my wit's end for
talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook accosting a
pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that he
might know whether he was anybody in particular. She said,
without a smile, Yes, it was astonishing how rude some people
could be.
And her godfathers and godmothers gave her the name of Rosalie.
Mine might just as well have called me Hercules or Puck.
She told me that her mother intended to ask me to dine with them
one evening next week. When was I free? I chose Thursday.
Oddly enough I enjoy dining there, although we are on the most
formal terms, not having got beyond the Sir Marcus and Mrs.
Ordeyne. But both mother and daughter are finely bred
gentlewomen, and one meets few, oh, very, very few among the
ladies of today.
I reached home about six and found a telegram awaiting me.
_Sorry can't give you dinner. Cook in an impossible condition.

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