At home, I used to be reckoned one of the pleasantest of us: the boys used to laugh when I said things: but not even the most hysterically mirthful could find food for laughter in my talk now.
And so the days pass; and we go to London.

Sometimes I have thought that it will be better when we get there.

At least, _she_ will not be there.
How can she, with her husband gnashing his teeth in lonely discomfiture at his exasperated creditors, and receiptless bills, in sultry St.
Thomas?
But, somehow, she is.

What good Samaritan takes out his twopence and pays for her little apartment, for her stacks of cut flowers, for her brougham and her opera-boxes, is no concern of mine.

But, somehow, there always _are_ good Samaritans in those cases; and, let alone Samaritans, there are no priests or Levites stonyhearted enough to pass by these dear, little, lovely things on the other side.
We go out a good deal, Roger and I, and everywhere he accompanies me.