I don't think I told you about Mawson.

She has been a housemaid in Grosvenor Street for some years, and she maided me once when Julie was on holiday, so when that superior damsel refused to accompany me on this trek I gladly left her behind and brought Mawson in her place.
"She is really very little use as a maid, but her conversation is pleasing and she has a most cheery grin.

She reads the works of Florence Barclay, and doesn't care for music-halls--'low I call them, Miss.' I asked her if she were fond of music, and she said, 'Oh yes, Miss,' and then with a coy glance, 'I ply the mandoline.' I think she is about fifty, and not at all good-looking, so she will be a much more comfortable person in the house than Julie, who would have moped without admirers.
"Well, at present Mawson and I are rather like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday on the island...." * * * * * Pamela stopped and looked out of the window for inspiration.

Miss Bathgate's parlour was not alluring, but the view from it was a continual feast--spreading fields, woods that in this yellowing time of the year were a study in old gold, the winding river, and the blue hills beyond.

Pamela saw each detail with delight; then, letting her eyes come nearer home, she studied the well-kept garden belonging to her landlady.
On the wall that separated it from the next garden a small boy and a dog were seated.
Pamela liked boys, so she smiled encouragingly to this one, the boy responding by solemnly raising his cap.
Pamela leaned out of the window.
"Good morning," she said.