The Chauffeur and the Chaperon

								

Starr induced them to stand for him, though

        they were reluctant and self-conscious     216
I was glad to stoop down and pat Tibe .    .       240
Solemn men inspecting burning globes, and

        bargaining with their possessors   .       254
She looked, for all the world, like a beautiful

        Frisian girl   .    .    .    .    .       288
It was Phyllis who shone at Liliendaal     .       320
"Well--have I pleased you?" Freule Menela

        asked at last  .    .    .    .    .       344
It was a ring for a lover to offer to his lady     352
At his present rate he would reach us in about

        two minutes    .    .    .    .    .       388

THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE CHAPERON
NELL VAN BUREN'S POINT OF VIEW

I

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