The Chauffeur and the Chaperon

OTHER BOOKS BY C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON
My Friend the Chauffeur, Lady Betty Across the Water, Rosemary in Search of a Father, Princess Virginia, The Car of Destiny, The Princess Passes, The Lightning Conductor
TO MR. G. VAN DER POT PRESIDENT OF THE ROTTERDAM SAILING AND ROWING CLUB WHOSE KIND AND NEVER-FAILING HELP ADDED TENFOLD TO THE PLEASURES OF OUR VOYAGE THROUGH DELIGHTFUL DUTCH WATERWAYS WE DEDICATE THE STORY OF THE TOUR

Sometimes I think that having a bath is the nicest part of the day, especially if you take too long over it, when you ought to be hurrying.
Phyllis and I (Phil is my stepsister, though she is the most English creature alive) have no proper bath-room in our flat. What can you expect for forty pounds a year, even at Clapham? But we have a fitted-up arrangement in the box-room, and it has never exploded yet. Phyllis allows herself ten minutes for her bath every morning, just as she allows herself five minutes for her prayers, six to do her hair, and four for everything else, except when she wears laced-up boots; but then, she has principles, and I have none; at least, I have no maxims. And this morning, just because there were lots of things to do, I was luxuriating in the tub, thinking cool, delicious thoughts.
As a general rule, when you paint glorious pictures for yourself of your future as you would like it to be, it clouds your existence with gray afterwards, because the reality is duller by contrast; but it was different this morning. I had stopped awake all night thinking the same things, and I was no more tired of the thoughts now than when I first began.
I lay with my eyes shut, sniffing Eau de Cologne (I'd poured in a bottleful for a kind of libation, because I could afford to be extravagant), and planning what a delightful future we would have.
I should love to chop up Phil's type-writer and burn the remains, I said to myself; but she's much more likely to put it away in lavender, or give it to the next-door-girl with the snub nose. Anyhow, I shall never have to write another serial story for Queen-Woman , or The Fireside Lamp , or any of the other horrors. Oh the joy of not being forced to create villains, only to crush them in the end! No more secret doors and coiners' dens, and unnaturally beautiful dressmakers' assistants for me! Instead of doing typing at ninepence a thousand words Phil can embroider things for curates, and instead of peopling the world with prigs and puppets at a guinea a thou', I can—oh, I can do anything . I don't know what I shall want to do most, and that's the best of it—just to know I can do it. We'll have a beautiful house in a nice part of town, a cottage by the river, and, best of all, we can travel—travel—travel.