COINCIDENCE'S LONG ARM.
Dear Sir,—May I draw your attention to a series of domestic occurrences which illustrate the distressing and increasing tendency of this fin-de-siècle age? I say fin-de-siècle because as it has got to come in somehow, it may as well be said at once. At breakfast yesterday the bacon was wretchedly cooked. My wife said, "It's the fault of the New Cook," which was all the satisfaction or explanation that I got. I found my study disguised in an apparent tidiness, achieved at the cost of a complete confusion of my papers, which had been tidied away in a manner that completely defied detection. My wife only answered, "Oh, it's that New Housemaid." That night we went to the theatre. The name of the play was The New Woman. Then I understood the true inwardness of all my previous experiences. The moral is so clear that I do not propose to draw any.
The Cedars, Sept. 29.Notta Newman.
LETTERS FROM A DÉBUTANTE.
Dearest Marjorie,—It is really quite time you gave me some more of your valuable advice. Thanks to you, I was not such an utter failure in my first season as I expected. After a month at home (my people loathe the new way I do my hair, and it seemed, I am ashamed to say, a little dull there), I have come to stay again with the Lyon Taymers at their country house.
You remember I refused the man who did conjuring tricks? He has written to me since to say he sees now how right I was—rather crushing! I also fully intended to refuse Captain Mashington. But he went to Dinard without giving me the opportunity, and I hear he has been playing tennis there the whole day with Mrs. Lorne Hopper. I am sure I hope he enjoyed it. She is what you or I would consider rather old, but is said to be perfectly charming, and of course looks fifteen years younger than her youngest daughter.
It seems rather strange, doesn't it, Marjorie, that after being so wonderfully sensible all the season, I should suddenly do something quite idiotic in September? However, I have; and I want you to help me out of it. I'll tell you all, if you'll promise not to laugh. When I first came, I was "thrown," as people say, a good deal with the Taymer's nephew—Oriel Crampton who has just left Oxford. I was told he was very serious, rather shy, philanthropic, and has "views"; also that he had done a great deal of good in the West End. This interested me, and I tried to draw him out. They had omitted to mention that he was dreadfully susceptible. We talked for hours in the garden, nearly all the time—at first—about the housing of the rich and horrible cases of over-crowding—at London parties. He was very earnest and ascetic (he never drinks anything but hot water, and doesn't smoke); he lent me books—he is rather handsome—and—gradually—somehow I found I had drifted into an absurd sort of private half-engagement! Yes—I have actually a bangle rivetted on—with a date inside—the date I was insane enough to agree——Isn't it dreadful?