I have two visitors staying with me, though I have done nothing to provoke such an infliction, and had been looking forward to a happy little Christmas alone with the Man of Wrath and the babies. Fate decreed otherwise. Quite regularly, if I look forward to anything, Fate steps in and decrees otherwise; I don’t know why it should, but it does. I had not even invited these good ladies—like greatness on the modest, they were thrust upon me. One is Irais, the sweet singer of the summer, whom I love as she deserves, but of whom I certainly thought I had seen the last for at least a year, when she wrote and asked if I would have her over Christmas, as her husband was out of sorts, and she didn’t like him in that state. Neither do I like sick husbands, so, full of sympathy, I begged her to come, and here she is. And the other is Minora.
Why I have to have Minora I don’t know, for I was not even aware of her existence a fortnight ago. Then coming down cheerfully one morning to breakfast—it was the very day after my return from England—I found a letter from an English friend, who up till then had been perfectly innocuous, asking me to befriend Minora. I read the letter aloud for the benefit of the Man of Wrath, who was eating Spickgans, a delicacy much sought after in these parts. “Do, my dear Elizabeth,” wrote my friend, “take some notice of the poor thing. She is studying art in Dresden, and has nowhere literally to go for Christmas. She is very ambitious and hardworking—”
“Then,” interrupted the Man of Wrath, “she is not pretty. Only ugly girls work hard.”
“—and she is really very clever—”
“I do not like clever girls, they are so stupid,” again interrupted the Man of Wrath.
“—and unless some kind creature like yourself takes pity on her she will be very lonely.”
“Then let her be lonely.”
“Her mother is my oldest friend, and would be greatly distressed to think that her daughter should be alone in a foreign town at such a season.”
“I do not mind the distress of the mother.”
“Oh, dear me,” I exclaimed impatiently, “I shall have to ask her to come!”
“If you should be inclined,” the letter went on, “to play the good Samaritan, dear Elizabeth, I am positive you would find Minora a bright, intelligent companion—”
“Minora?” questioned the Man of Wrath.
The April baby, who has had a nursery governess of an altogether alarmingly zealous type attached to her person for the last six weeks, looked up from her bread and milk.
“It sounds like islands,” she remarked pensively.
The governess coughed.
“Majora, Minora, Alderney, and Sark,” explained her pupil.
I looked at her severely.
“If you are not careful, April,” I said, “you’ll be a genius when you grow up and disgrace your parents.”
Miss Jones looked as though she did not like Germans. I am afraid she despises us because she thinks we are foreigners—an attitude of mind quite British and wholly to her credit; but we, on the other hand, regard her as a foreigner, which, of course, makes things complicated.
“Shall I really have to have this strange girl?” I asked, addressing nobody in particular and not expecting a reply.
“You need not have her,” said the Man of Wrath composedly, “but you will. You will write today and cordially invite her, and when she has been here twenty-four hours you will quarrel with her. I know you, my dear.”
“Quarrel! I? With a little art-student?”
Miss Jones cast down her eyes. She is perpetually scenting a scene, and is always ready to bring whole batteries of discretion and tact and good taste to bear on us, and seems to know we are disputing in an unseemly manner when we would never dream it ourselves but for the warning of her downcast eyes. I would take my courage in both hands and ask her to go, for besides this superfluity of discreet behaviour she is, although only nursery, much too zealous, and inclined to be always teaching and never playing; but, unfortunately, the April baby adores her and is sure there never was anyone so beautiful before. She comes every day with fresh accounts of the splendours of her wardrobe, and feeling descriptions of her umbrellas and hats; and Miss Jones looks offended and purses up her lips. In common with most governesses, she has a little dark down on her upper lip, and the April baby appeared one day at dinner with her own decorated in faithful imitation, having achieved it after much struggling, with the aid of a lead pencil and unbounded love. Miss Jones put her in the corner for impertinence. I wonder why governesses are so unpleasant. The Man of Wrath says it is because they are not married. Without venturing to differ entirely from the opinion of experience, I would add that the strain of continually having to set an example must surely be very great. It is much easier, and often more pleasant, to be a warning than an example, and governesses are but
