OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 

 comes within a mile of her. She has a kind of Jane Eyre 

 charm, we suppose, for it is not at first visible to the 

 naked eye. She always does remind us of a small elderly 

 German governess, for she is squat, undemonstrative, 

 and eminently-oh, eminently Irespectable. She is a fox- 

 terrier. She has, however, one terrible weakness. Her 

 only joy is to have stones thrown for her. She is not, 

 therefore, an agreeable person to take out for a walk, 

 for she will get right under your feet, dig up a stone, 

 point at it, and bark, "Throw, throw! 7 ' with a shrill 

 persistence that goes through your head. And if you 

 are weak-minded enough to yield, then indeed you are 

 undone, YOU will be kept throwing till you wish her in 

 the Dog Star. She will scratch up stones till her paws 

 are raw. This we think a great defect, but Loki sees no 

 flaw in her. 



When Susan's Butler first came to us, we had suffered 

 acutely from butlers young and butlers old, butlers bashful 

 and butlers boldall of whom drank steadily. One nearly 

 murdered his Buttons. Another, engaged by correspond- 

 ence, vouched for by the agency, announcing his years as 

 forty -five, arrived huge, decrepit, asthmatic / almost, if not 

 quite, qualified for an old-age pension. The eight o'clock 

 dinner he found it impossible to serve before nine / and then 

 that ceremony became a perfect torture of dazed crawling, 

 enlivened by stertorous breathing, for which asthma and 

 chronic alcoholism disputed responsibility. When the 

 Master of the House, who is very tender-hearted, in- 

 timated that he thought that, for the good of the new 

 6 



