I forgot to tell you another awful row there’s been. Hetherington who is a new chap sits next to Ferguson at dinner. Ferguson always bags his sausage at breakfast on Sundays. The other day the Matron found a letter in Ferguson’s drawer written by Hetherington to Ferguson saying, “Dear Mister Ferguson. May I please have my sausage next Sunday. I’m so hungry.” Ferguson was swished but he didn’t care a rap. The Head says he’s callus. I had an awfully good catty. I shot Hichens mi. in the back of his head by mistake and it bled awfuly. I thought I was in for it but the Head only bagged my catty for the rest of the term. We sent for a lot of snakes and green lizzards from Covent Garden and most of us bought some. I bought a Salamander but it died. Up to the Head one can’t keep a toad in one’s desk as we used to when we were in Colly’s div. We still have Hashed Cat and Dead Fly pudding on Thursdays and nobody eats it and Mac still asks us why we arnt hungry. But I’m in training now for the sports and don’t eat pudding at all. None of us do.

Please write and tell me about the sort of things a chap ought to know before going to Eton.

Yours ever,
P. Smith.

I’m Smith ma. now because my minor’s here. He isnt bad.

FROM SATURDAY TO MONDAY

Letter from a Frenchwoman to an English Friend in Italy

Hotel Ritz, London.
Monday, June 1909.

My very dear Mary,

Here is the second tome of my first impressions of your country and your compatriots, which I promised to share with you. After the town the country! After one day of the London season, the English country life, the home, the Sunday at home! I have spent what you call a Saturday week-end, or a Sunday over. I will relate you all my adventures, and tell you in all frankness the good and the bad.

The sister of our dear Jackie invited me for the Saturday week-end to her beautiful chateau. By misfortune our dear Jackie was prevented from coming himself. He was kept all Sunday at the Foreign Office to help to copy out telegrams! Is it not ignoble to spoil his holiday like that? Jackie, who has so little holiday, and who works so hard in Paris! His sister—perhaps you know her—is Lady Arlington, the wife of Sir Arlington. Their chateau is in Surrey. I had never been presented to her, but she wrote me most amiably and proposed three trains I might take. I chose the first, which arrived at half-past four, and found an auto at the station. After five minutes we arrived at the chateau, which is fine, but rather heavy: style, Louis XIV, outside. In the interior, a mixture—Queen Elizabeth, Vandyke, Maple, Modern style, Morris. Je n’aime pas les mélanges. But the English comfort always seduces me. The chintzes, the flowers, the nick-nacks, the thousand little nothings! Oh, it is charming! When I arrived I was shown into a large hall, all panelled (the panelling repainted) with some fine pictures (some Vandykes and a Sir Joshua) and some horrors. And a picture of Lady Arlington by a modern French painter; a nightmare like a coloured photograph! There was a large tea table and a buffet all prepared, but neither the master nor the mistress of the house there to receive me. In the corner of the room a pale young man was sitting reading a book. He got up when I entered and looked embarrassed and said nothing. I did not know whether it was Sir Arlington or not. Then he said: “It has stopped raining; I think I will go out.” And he abandoned me to my fate!