PREFACE

The purpose of this story is to form some impression of salient facts and tendencies in Canadian life, and to show its strength, and through its strength, its weakness. So I planned before the gods ruled for war, and the soldiers began to write history with the sword which, despite Lytton, is proved infinitely mightier than the pen.

However, here is the book, and I hope the reader will not be sorry to meet again old friends. Elsie has—though she does not intend it—a serious purpose.

The English have never truly understood the Colonial.

In May of last year (1914) a writer in the Times said that he had lived in Canada for a number of years, and was satisfied that Canada was becoming Americanized, because the Canadian talked with an American accent. It was possible that what he saw and regarded with alarm is what I have here drawn in gentle satire. Society is our bane; and a new society is certain to be, in many respects, intolerable. The craze for, and hunt after, society is not limited to any country; it is a world-wide weakness. The Snob is—as Thackeray showed us—ubiquitous.

As to my references to the Spread-Eagle citizens of the United States, I have had access to two books, The Loyalists of Massachusetts, by John H. Stark, Boston, published by himself, and The True History of the American Revolution, by Sydney George Fisher, (Lippincott). These are remarkable books; and a knowledge of the contents of either would go far to enable an Englishman to measure the Canadian’s attitude towards the United States. The story these books tell parallels that set forth in the press, as shown by the onslaught of German hordes into Belgium. The outstanding difference is that whereas the Germans cry “Kultur” the Yankees yelled “Liberty.” The Archives of the United States tell of 30,000 cases of outrage against the Loyalists which, I fancy, is a greater number than can be laid at the door of the Huns.

The books mentioned are significant of a popular move. That this move should have originated in the “Land of the Free” is remarkable. That popular appreciation should have been held from the Canadian so long is deplorable. That recognition has been withheld from Canadians is shown by the after-dinner speech made a few years ago at New York, by a noble Lord. The gentleman I refer to is reported to have said in effect: “The Revolutionists would have been unworthy of their ancestors had they not taken up arms.” The implied inference is that the Loyalists were unworthy of their ancestors.

I do not claim the right to speak for any one but myself, but as all my ancestors were in America before the Revolution, few have a better claim. Canada is peopled by a sound stock, somewhat lacking in philosophy. It is an important asset to civilization and, as has been proved in Flanders, an heroic constituent of the British Empire. But our people need a truer appreciation of proper values; when they have this, they will be second to none among the peoples of the world. But at present we do not lack that virtue which finds reward within itself.

The reader is asked to believe that this book was designed and largely written before August, 1914.

Goosequill.

Toronto, November 1st, 1915.

AS OTHERS SEE US BEING THE DIARY OF A CANADIAN DEBUTANTE

December 15th.

Mumsie is a dear, and I am going to put all about her in this diary. Mumsie says I am an old-fashioned girl (how little she knows me!), but I’ll be old-fashioned enough anyhow to keep a diary. It will be useful to read about the people, and parties, and things I’m going to enjoy. Yes, enjoy is the word. Dances and afternoon teas, and those things the rich people do, I’m going to have my share of. I’m glad I’m a girl, especially when one has such a good aunt as Mumsie. She was nothing more than a friend of my mother—the mother I never knew. And, I am sure, the best of friends!

Just to think I am really to spend a winter in this great Canadian City! I shall call it the City of Mammon. After my village home that seems the only name for it, and there is evidence of wealth everywhere. I almost gasp when I think of what some things I see must have cost, the silk dresses, the great hats with ostrich plumes, the motors. And I must confess to being dazed when I came out of the station. The bells clanged so loudly and the engines puffed as if they wished to specially frighten me; but they didn’t, that is, not much. Perhaps it is that the station held the noises in under its great, glass roof; but the noise and the buffeting, and the many people in a hurry made a strange confusion. At home the station roof is the vault of Heaven, so that we score sometimes in our village. And when we got into the street the cars, the motors, and the lights flashing here and there—it was all so fairy-like and heavenly that—Oh! it is good to be alive.

Mumsie has given me such a big room with an outlook over the street. I feel almost as Cinderella must have felt when at the Prince’s Ball before the midnight bell. I wonder if I shall be asked to any balls! But of course I shall. If Uncle should try to be an old fogey—but he won’t.

That is enough to write about for the first day. No, I must put down more about Mumsie. When she met me at the station and took me in her arms and kissed me, it seemed as if her heart opened and I fell right in; and when she spoke I felt as if I had known her voice all my life. She had a hundred things to ask about myself: how she thought of them all I can’t imagine. She is full of fun, with lots of amusing stories, or at least she seems to make fun out of almost anything. She has reddish hair—a poet would no doubt call it golden—which she does like the Queen, and her voice when she gets talking is generally loud, though the louder it gets the nicer it sounds, it is so cheery. My uncle, her husband, Mr. George Somers, is a largish man with roast-beef cheeks and gray hair, though he is not the least bit old looking. He has a straight nose, a full and polished forehead, and a cropped, white moustache. He is a lawyer, and has a voice for humbugging with. I like him, and there is a twinkle in his eye.

P.S. I am so happy!

December 16th.

I looked out of my window this morning and the trees glistened prettily in the sunlight. I could not help thinking of the Fairy Godmother. But I mustn’t think these thoughts. I am a grown-up person of eighteen. Though it doesn’t matter what I write here, as I am never going to show this diary to anybody, not even to the beloved Mumsie.

After breakfast we, that is, Mumsie and I, set out on a shopping expedition. I knew them all by name: Horace’s, Lewis’s, and Carlisle’s; I had at home pored over their advertisements so often. And just to think I was really going to visit them and buy lots of things! Dad had given me one hundred dollars, saying I must dress myself properly. One hundred dollars! I have never before had so much money to spend. Poor Dad! he must find it so dull living in the country, and his patients are such poor pay.

We went to Lewis’s first and bought an evening dress and the duckiest little hat that ever was, and after that we went to Horace’s. This I knew was really the fashionable shop. Mumsie said we were to buy a suit; she said I would need one. Indeed, I already felt I was shabby, and was sorry I had not put on my new hat at Lewis’s and had my old one sent home.

I gasped as we entered Horace’s, the dresses were all so grand, and there were so many ladies present. No person paid any attention to us at first; but when they did they looked at Mumsie first and then at me, and their eyes (I think) lingered on me.

After we had made our purchases, Mumsie took me to a ribbon counter, not far away from a most beautifully dressed woman. Her ermine stole did not hide a diamond and sapphire brooch at her throat. Her blue velvet suit was in the latest fashion. She was large and dark. Her face was rounded, and lofty eyebrows made her eyes appear prominent. A cold, deliberate manner gave the impression of absolute control. She bowed to Mumsie and my heart went into my mouth. I am silly to be so fluttered and shy. The strange lady advanced and held her hand out to Mumsie.

“How do you do Mrs. Somers? How is Mr. Somers? I hope you are all well.”

“Quite well, thank you,” replied Mumsie, not too genially I thought.

“You will take a hand in our Ragamuffins’ Feast, won’t you?”

“Certainly, I would not miss for the world,” answered Auntie.

Mumsie’s manner was more formal than I had yet known her use, and it struck me the lady had something on her mind.

“I suppose you are doing your Christmas shopping early out of consideration for the help.”

“No, not exactly,” replied Mumsie, “I am helping my friend here. Elsie, let me introduce you to Mrs. Lien. This is my niece, Elsie Travers, who is to spend the winter with me. She is a debutante.”

Mrs. Lien flashed me a critical glance, and said rather grandly: “I have no doubt Miss Travers will enjoy herself. It must be very interesting getting her outfit.”

When she had gone I wondered whether her manner had wounded or gladdened me. I had received something of a shock.

At dinner I said to Uncle: “Who is Mrs. Lien?”

Uncle repeated the question with a smile growing on his lips and the merriest twinkle in his eyes.

“My dear, one would think you were Mrs. Grundy herself,” laughed Mumsie, “by the severe way in which you asked the question.”

“Mrs. Lien is a Yankee; so we know nothing of her antecedents. She is the wife of Stephen Lien, who on his part,” said Uncle slowly “is the son of his father.”

I suppose I showed I was puzzled.

“Mr. Lien, senior,” continued Uncle, “was an English attorney who came to this country in the forties and accommodated the farmers by lending them money.”

“How very considerate of him,” I claimed, while Auntie looked oddly at Uncle.

“Yes, he used consideration and discrimination also, for he was a master hand at selecting those farmers whose lands were good, and who were themselves less capable.”

There was now a curious smile, cynical I think it should be called, on Uncle’s lips. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing, which I have decided is sometimes the wisest thing to say.

“He soon owned the farm,” continued Uncle.

“That is a very clever way of making money—” I began.

“Elsie!” cried Mumsie in horror.

What had I said to startle her?

“There was a period of bad crops,” said Uncle, reflectively. “A humane man who would lend money to farmers, a man with a heart and a conscience would be a godsend in a new country, but unfortunately Lien pere was not a humane man, and his son, and his son’s wife, and their bright boy, Charlie——”

“Hush!” said Auntie.

I wonder why!

“Elsie,” said Uncle gravely, “we owe a debt of gratitude to our forefathers. This land is to-day drunk with prosperity, yet every foot of our broad acres, these miles and miles of fertile fields, have been won by the sweat of toiling manhood, supported by the tears of trusting, oftentimes gentle, womanhood. I am afraid the fruit of all these sacrifices are not falling into the hands of those who are worthiest of them.”

“That might be said of any land,” objected Mumsie. “I suppose all land was wild once upon a time.”

“In Europe the land was cleared two or three thousand years ago; our land has been cleared within the last few generations,” retorted Uncle. “I don’t suppose our ancestors in the British Isles or in Normandy found it much hardship to live in log huts, to do their own washing, or to forego their morning paper.”

“That is where the Lien money came from—from grinding these poor farmers’?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I was not sorry for the reply, because it showed I was not wrong in my instinctive dislike of the good lady.

“And what does the present Mr. Lien do?”

“He’s a stockbroker. When a rich man dies and leaves a son of no particular abilities they make a broker of him. The stock market covers a multitude of sins.” Uncle was smiling again.

“Does it?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, yes, a multitude of sins. Now one may not keep a tavern and sell booze——”

“George!” exclaimed Mumsie with mock horror.

“I wanted to be frank, my dear.”

“You always do,” she complained cheerily.

“One may not keep a tavern or even be a brewer and keep respectability, but it is quite in order to hold stock in a brewery company or hotel.”

“What a cynic you are,” I cried.

“And what we have come to now! Old man Lien was kept in his place in the old days. He was a plain man with a hard fist. They are gentry. The son and his son’s wife lord it to-day. But the foundation of their fortune and proud estate was the life-blood of men and women whose veins ran with better blood, who had truer gentility than they can ever claim with all their social rudeness.”

“But Uncle,” I pleaded, “because the old man was a skin-flint, you would not visit his sins on the son and the son’s wife, would you?”

“ ‘The sins of the father,’ my young lady. I am no more charitable than my Maker. Without his money old Lien would never have had any notice taken of him; and, if you pay obeisance at his shrine, and drink his claret cup, you may, if your imagination be strong enough, taste the salt of tears shed long ago.”

“George! What a Tory!”

“Thank God!” replied Uncle, and shaking his finger at me: “Remember, Elsie, if Belle takes you to call on Mrs. Lien, you call on her money, on her father’s guilty money, remember that!”

“George, you dear old ass. Why do you put such ideas into the child’s head’?” (Child indeed!) Then turning to me: “Don’t pay any attention to what he says, Elsie. Old man Lien—as your Uncle calls him—may have made his start that way, but the great fortune they now have has grown from wise investment.”

“Exactly, if I sow a kernel of wheat and it produces twenty, it is the same wheat,” retorted Uncle.

“Nonsense!”

That was the end of it for a time, as we rose from the table. Mumsie put her arm about me and said: “Pay no attention to George, to what he says, when in a teasing mood. He’s incorrigible!” and she made a grimace at him which seemed to please him, for he seized her hand and squeezed it.

“I like him,” I said, when she and I were alone, and I think my tribute pleased her.

December 17th.

Last night after I went to bed I thought and thought. At last I am really “in the world.” I had read so often of Mrs. Lien in the society news in the city papers, that to be actually living in the house with one who would dare to attack her is cheering. And Mumsie is so glorious and dignified. Hers is a native dignity. I still feel as if her kindness were all about me like a glorious cloak. I wish I could put my present, overflowing happiness into cold storage, so that I could enjoy it bit by bit in after years.

Immediately after breakfast this morning Mumsie told me she was giving the day to the work of preparing for the Ragamuffins’ Feast. Mumsie is a woman of capacity and makes no false moves.

The first thing she did was to go to the telephone.

“Mrs. Mount, this is Belle Somers speaking. I wish you to give me some lettuce from your conservatories for the poor boys’ feast.”

* * * * *

“Six heads.”

* * * * *

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’ll tell Mrs. Lien,” and she banged on the receiver, and sat on the seat beside me, her face twitching with annoyance.

“What is it?” I asked impulsively.

“Wait a minute.”

The telephone rang again.

“Yes.” Mumsie answered.

* * * * *

“Yes, Mrs. Lien is managing it this year.”

* * * * *

“All right, you’ll send them to the hall to my care.”

* * * * *

And again the receiver was put back on the hook and Mumsie, trembling with agitation, sat again beside me.

“I know how to fix that woman,” she declared. “I told her I would report to Mrs. Lien, and then, my dear, she promised not only to send the six heads of lettuce I asked for, but a turkey and a dozen Charlotte russes as well.” In delivering the last sentence Mumsie’s chin protruded in a manner I judged to be an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Mount.

We went to the hall where a great many ladies were working among hampers of food. They all seemed nice and genially kind as Mumsie introduced me. We all got to work, laid tables, and arranged the food. One of the women who seemed to take a special interest in me was Mrs. Bassett. She has a large nose with prominent eyebrows, her chin is pointed, and her mouth drawn into a perpetual smile. I suppose she is daily described as aristocratic looking. But I know what she will look like at eighty with her teeth gone—a witch. In the old days she’d have hardly escaped burning. She told me she had two daughters; one my age, Ethel, and hoped we would be friends.

I found the good ladies very uninteresting, though Mrs. Bassett, with her sharp eyes, is capable of humour at times. Nothing was said about society—which is growing my chief interest—and they dressed dowdily.

Mrs. Lien in all her grandeur, came in while we worked, asked a few questions and departed. She did not even nod to me, though she must have seen me. I am inclined to believe that to be kind means to be commonplace. Mrs. Lien seems to be neither.

I was waiting with impatience to talk to Uncle on the subject of Mrs. Mount, but succeeded in restraining myself until Uncle had finished his first helping of meat. My idea was that, his hunger appeased, I could get him off to a better start. I asked innocently enough: “Uncle, do you know Mrs. Mount?”

His eyes met mine and then settled on his wife.

“Mrs. Mount! Do I know Mrs. Mount? Belle, why do you not introduce Elsie to someone milder than that old battle-axe?”

“I have not introduced her,” replied Mumsie promptly. “I asked Mrs. Mount over the ’phone for some lettuce for our feast and had to bring in Mrs. Lien before I could get it.”

Uncle roared with laughter.

“Elsie, during your stay with us, you will get an insight into human nature if into nothing else,” was his severe comment. “Mrs. Mount” he went on, “is a social-climber; the term is self-explanatory and she and her notions are illuminating. Her past history would make a compendium on the process of social climbing, and the progress of snobbery invaluable to those who have the mean ambition to inflict themselves upon their betters, or, perhaps it were more correct to say, intrude where they are not wanted.”

I was surprised and piqued by his harshness. I think that “pique” looks well.

“Is it wrong,” I asked “to try and get into society?”

“Not wrong, Elsie, but probably unworthy. Of course much depends upon the society aimed at. Ambition is, as the poets have often taught us, a fruitful source of woe, humiliation, and remorse, and social ambition is to my mind the pettiest of vanities. It is as pernicious to-day as when Greece produced—and slew—Socrates.”

I then asked a question which in these new days has often occurred to me.

“What is society? What would a philosopher call it? Let me see! Society is an affiliation of friends mutually acceptable. If it remained so, that would be good enough; unfortunately it has tended to the wealthy gathering into a clique, whose doings are naturally the more spectacular and so attract the weakling, the snob, the social-climber.”

Mustering up what I hope looked like world-wisdom, I said: “That Uncle, is also, a natural process.”

He laughed at me, quite kindly.

“Undoubtedly, you wise miss, Mammon has always had his measure of worshippers. But the point is that to enter such society was never a worthy ambition. In the days of Charles II, society, as we use the word, meant the court circle, and that was certainly a discreditable institution. Queen Victoria, of course, made her circle one of a high standard; but, society in her day no longer meant the circle nearest the throne, nor does it convey that meaning to-day.”

“Of course,” continued Uncle in his kind tones. (He certainly is taking trouble with me—dear man!) “I need not talk about society in England. One may not know all about everything in England and the English after a three month’s visit. But of Canada I do know much: and this—that both this country and the United States are society mad. If there is any greater snob on earth than the average Canadian, it is the average citizen of that particular Land of the Free.”

I do not like the Yankees, or mind hearing them abused; but I object to hearing the supposed failings of my own people set forth.

“Uncle, you are severe.”

“Elsie,” Uncle replied in tones that were low, and I thought bore an echo of sadness, “you are on the threshold of life; your happiness is largely your own to make or break. If you develop the society bug,—the society craze—you kiss good-bye to your peace of mind, and peace is the true foundation of happiness. When you choose your friends, imagine yourself with them alone on a desert island. Under those circumstances what sort of companions would they be? That’s the test.”

“Bosh!” cried Mumsie. “Isn’t the girl down here to see some life, to go to balls and parties, and have as good a time generally as we can give her?”

“I was just telling her—” he began, but was promptly cut short.

“You were just trying to fill her head with nonsense. A desert island. Fiddlesticks!”

There was naturally a pause after this, but I was glad to see Uncle was not completely down. I watched his face, rejoicing at the evident signs of consideration before a new assault.

“I once knew a politician who came from Alberta. He made a lot of money, his enemies said by shady means, but I believe by his native cleverness in land speculation. His was a happy home, the family united by affection. And then all went society mad. Paterfamilias took to horses and the boys followed suit. To make a long story short, with the advent of riches and horses, happiness flew out of the window, and there was ruin.”

Uncle was now cracking nuts; in a minute he would be rising and going to his den, and I had not yet heard about Mrs. Mount. So, I asked again.

“Mrs. Mount, my child, was the daughter of old Bustard, who—how wonderful when we go back to the beginnings—kept a tavern at a crossroads in the country. First he sold butter and sugar openly, and grog on the sly; then he blossomed into keeping a tavern. He made money fast and speculated. He dabbled in the Chicago wheat pit, and in real estate. He appreciated the lessons of history and got out at the top of several booms. In short, he was a successful money-maker, and collected a pile, and then died. Mount, who was, what out west they call a shyster, married the girl, Miss Bustard. That’s all.”

“And how did she with those disadvantages manage to climb into society?” I asked.

“Money first; then the Church. She gave to charities, tinted her hair a golden yellow, drove a fine pair of horses before the motor came chu-ing along, carried impecunious dowagers home from meetings of the Women’s Auxiliary. Oh, it was all easy, only a matter of persistence. The dowagers had to ask her to tea, and when she was able to pay them back, she took care that the papers made a splash of it. So Mrs. Mount got thick with the old families.”

“But,” I objected (I can’t help asking questions), “if she was so generous to charities, why did she wish to limit Mumsie to two heads of lettuce?”

Uncle was, I think, needlessly scornful as he replied: “You don’t feed a fish bait after you have caught him.”

That was all.

December 18th.

Only a week from Christmas! Mrs. Bassett’s tea was delightful; that is to me. Her house was not very big, being semi-detached and the crowding was certainly dreadful.

I’m sure those present were all such ladies as Uncle would have approved of, but somehow to me, they seemed much alike, some even shabby, and their kindness and graciousness I took (Dear me! am I becoming a weak snob? It looks like it) as an effort to make up for their deficiencies in plumage.

Shortly after breakfast Mrs. Bassett rang up Mumsie and asked if I would care to go.

“A waste of good money,” was Uncle’s comment.

“But the woman must do something to return the hospitality shown Ethel, and it is out of the question for her to afford a dance,” stormed Mumsie.

“But if she did not allow Ethel to know all and sundry, she need not feel it incumbent on her to make this sort of return,” retorted Uncle, nailing his colours to the mast. “Moreover, when I was a boy the full expenses of a dance was some ten dollars and we enjoyed it. To-day the pace is tuned so high that a dance at home costs ten times as much; and, for a flare up at a hotel or public-hall, a thousand dollars is too little. To so-called leaders of fashion, like Mrs. Lien, or social climbers like the Mount woman, the advertisement is no doubt worth the money. But few people in Canada who are truly distinguished can feel it a satisfactory way of spending money.”

“A woman—” began Mumsie.

“There is an old tradition that if a woman wishes to give her daughter a run in the matrimonial market, it is necessary to bring her out. But when I look back on the society belles I have known, the percentage of them who are now old maids, or have become victims of unfortunate alliances is enormous.”

“The crooked stick at last,” I suggested.

“Yes, or the bad egg.”

“Ho,” grunted Mumsie.

“A girl or a young man,” continued Uncle, with a grin, “makes a stab at society for two reasons. One is to have a good time with plenty of excitement; the other is chase and capture a partner in life. But with the average mother it’s the chance at a husband first. And this I’m sure of, that so far as the big game of dances, parties, and so on goes, it is sheer wasted money and often the ruin of a girl’s health.”

“Bosh!” from Mumsie, whereat I laughed.

“Then, too,” went on Uncle, after a mocking bow to his interrupting wife, “when the girl has got her husband, he is nearly always a waster. I am satisfied that the proportion of unfortunate matings made in your dizzy whirl is fifty per cent higher than in more sober circles. There now!”

“You seem to have strong ideas on the subject of matrimony,” I ventured.

“He’s got strong ideas on most subjects,” protested Mumsie, “and he’s poured them into my ears for twenty years. I’m fed up with his nonsense. Now that you’re here, he’s got a new victim. And, when Jack comes it will be worse and worse!” Mumsie pretended to be in despair. Who was “Jack”? At the mention of Jack I saw Uncle fumble in his pocket and produce a letter.

“Talk of the devil,” he said. “Jack will be here for Christmas.”

“Good! and now you’re in for it, Elsie,” cried Mumsie. “When these men have talked to you for a week, you may consider yourself master of the accumulated knowledge of the ages.”

Uncle made no effort to counter this sally, and Mumsie continued as if she had read the question I had in mind, the most natural question.

“Jack, my dear, Jack Bang, (What a name!) is a railway contractor, miner, prospector, or what not; as strong as an ox, as cheery as a sand-boy, as generous as a sailor on leave, and with a jaw like that of Napoleon.”

“Is he——”

“Yes, very good looking. Jack was the misfit of the family.”

“He is the only one of the six who has any brains,” protested Uncle stormily.

“He came to visit us once when he was fifteen, and he and my Micawber, (Mumsie sometimes speaks of Uncle as her Micawber) became great friends. The result———”

“Leave Jack alone; let the girl form her own opinion of him,” put in Uncle, and Mumsie complied with his request by being silent.

I wonder if I shall like Mr. Bang. Jack Bang! Such an odd name. Mrs. Bang! I don’t think I like westerners; not that I have ever seen any.

December 19th, Sunday.

Of course we went to church. The afternoon I put in writing this diary. I often wonder what makes me write it, but write it I will. I believe Mumsie knows already I’m keeping it. If I am forced to confess, I will say I am doing it for practice, that some day I shall publish a novel.

I know Uncle would think more of me if I had such an ambition. Perhaps it would be a good thing to tell him. No, he would cease then to be such “good copy,” as the journalists call it. I do so enjoy getting him and Mumsie at verbal fighting; it’s great fun.

December 20th.

To-day we had the feast—and it was a feast. Dirty little ragamuffins!

Of course Mumsie was in attendance early. It was all one wild scramble, food, dirty imps, steam and struggle. I found it hard work and appreciated the reason why the feast was held so early, five days before Christmas. It was that we might get rest in time for our own festivities. I was disappointed that no stylish people came to help. Indeed, Mrs. Lien did turn up, also several other smart ladies, but they merely grinned, tossed their heads, and went away. Virtue is very dull—there is no question of that.

I have made up my mind about one thing. I’m going to get into society. It’s the spirit of the age. So why not? I’ll be in the fashion so soon, and far, as I can. I’m sure that Uncle’s ideas are old-fashioned. Of course I love Uncle and all that, but I know he’s wrong. I’ve used my eyes. I’m sure of it. Times change, fashions change, customs change, don’t they? And, people change, nations change, everything changes. The young are as likely to be right as the old, for they can’t be rid of their old opinions. How nice it must be to go every place and to everything, and to have one’s name always figuring prominently in the notices—like Georgie Cochrane, and Mabel Lien, and Doris Mount.

I know now why I am writing this diary! It’s partly practice, that some day I may write something good and make a name for myself. It is also to record my passing impressions of the society doings I am going to enjoy. For after I get back home again to the country, I’ll have plenty of time and it will be dull if I don’t employ myself. To-day in town I heard one girl say to a friend: “Good-bye—good luck. Be good and you’ll be happy—but you’ll have a mighty slow time.” Now I wonder!

And I have a right to a place in society. My grandfather was an army officer. So even Uncle could not call me a “social climber.” I only wish to see real life and get some enjoyment. The thing to do is to make friends among those who have aspirations and aims similar to mine—true friends, good friends. I wonder if Grandfather had any more joy in being honourable and upright than “old man” Lien, who lent to and ruined unfortunate farmers, and other incapable persons. Of course, old Lien had no friends outside his own class, but then Grandfather’s friends borrowed money from him and never returned it,—and drank his port wine. So I wonder which got the greater joy from life.

No doubt Grandfather would have despised old Lien, while Lien would have pitied Grandfather. There is no doubt that Mabel Lien has had a better time than I. And I can quite conceive that old Lien’s joy in his wide, rich lands was greater than Grandfather’s could be in being comparatively poor, however respectable. Yes, Uncle doesn’t know everything, and I’m not such a little girl as he thinks.

December 21st.

Nothing doing.

December 22nd.

I have seen Mrs. Mount.

Mumsie and I were going down Maple Avenue when I saw her. She wore a large, beautiful, black velvet hat, with ermine trimming, and came marching down the street majestically in her seal-skin jacket and ermine stole. Her hair is gold: I don’t mean coppery gold or any other kind of gold, but real, brassy, gold-yellow. I had an eye on her some time before Mumsie caught sight of her. I knew it was Mrs. Mount—instinct told.

I grasped Mumsie by the arm and whispered. “Yes, it is she,” she said.

From the way Mrs. Mount held her head it was evidently her intention of passing us with a mere bow. But to show how kind Mumsie is, she exclaimed: “Oh, Mrs. Mount, thank you so much for the lettuce, and things.”

It was very well done, just as if speaking to her had been an afterthought. We all stopped; Mumsie and she shook hands, and I’m sure I beamed.

Mrs. Mount gazed across the street for a moment ere she replied: “It was nothing, really, it was nothing; I’m always only too glad to help anything Mrs. Lien or you are arranging. What would the poor do without Mrs. Lien? I have my own troubles it is true,” she continued without pause in her drawling voice, “chasing around these horrid shops for corsets, corsets! Do you know, really, it is too awful for words. Those I can get here are quite impossible, and the others have not arrived from Paris.” Mrs. Mount accompanied her words by protruding her chin after the manner I had observed Mumsie affect.

“Too bad,” murmured Mumsie sympathetically.

“Do you know, really it is.” She spoke as if every other word were in capitals. “I always get mine from Paris,” and with a most pronounced sigh, “but they cost a hundred francs a pair, twenty dollars a pair!”

With the closing of this speech she turned and regarded me, and Mumsie introduced me.

“Nice looking little girl, a bud?” Mrs. Mount was pleased to say. “Well, my dear, you will have a good time, if you make friends with the right people; make it a rule, only the right people.”

“That’s very———” I began. I wanted to let her see I appreciated what she was saying; but she went on in her loud, slow voice:

“Isn’t Christmas a bore? I have just bought some things for some reduced gentle people. One has to look after the unfortunate of one’s own class you know really—old mother and three old maids—so sad you know.”

“I’m sure———”

“Yes, I suppose it is kind, but we all have to do it. But I must go, Sir Thomas and Lady Billings are coming to dinner to-night, and I must call at the florists, and goodness knows what else—Christmas prices too.”

“Your own———”

“My own conservatories don’t seem able to produce the flowers these professionals can; do you know, really, my gardener is supposed to be an expert from England. Now, Miss Travers,” she turned to me, “do take my tip and know only nice people. They are the only people who live, really they are. Good-bye Mrs. Somers. Mr. Somers well? Glad to hear it. We never see him now: I know he is not fond of society, so strange!”

I said: “Good-bye Mrs. Mount. I’m delighted to have met you,” in my best attempt at the proper manner. I wanted to make a good impression. Mumsie seemed amused, I wonder why.

As we walked on I felt I had one foot on the ladder; the position was improved. At last I knew a leading lady in society.

“Well, Elsie, what do you think of her?” Mumsie asked.

“I think she is most interesting,” I replied.

We trudged home.

As we came up the steps the door opened, and a great man seemed to fall on Mumsie. “Here I am again, Auntie, to bother you and shock your friends over Christmas!”

Mumsie beamed more than ever.

“Elsie, this is Jack, Mr. Bang! Jack, this is Miss Travers.”

“Hullo, Little Partner,” he cried. That was his greeting. Familiar I call it. He grasped my hand in his great paw. “I’ve heard of you and your father: I judge you are in town on a bit of a spree,” and Mr. Bang grinned.

Perhaps my surprise at this remark showed in my face, for he remarked: “There is more than one kind of intoxication, you know,” whereat Mumsie gave him a loving tap on the shoulder, and said,

“Don’t begin lecturing her too soon, Jack,” and turning to me, “Elsie, don’t take what he may say to you too seriously. He is worse than your uncle.”

“Very well, Auntie,” replied the reproved one; “I’ll remember that.” And we entered the house.

Of course, at dinner I told Uncle I had met Mrs. Mount, and, of course, Uncle asked what I thought of her.

“I could not quite make her out,” I replied, which was quite true. With all her mighty ways I did not altogether like her. She was rather too high and mighty.

“Let me tell you something, Elsie,” said Uncle in his fatherly way. “It is my guess that her ladyship was not hunting corsets at all, nor was she making purchases for impoverished ladies; she was really talking for effect.”

“Uncle, how ungenerous of you!” I exclaimed.

“I know for a fact that Sir Thomas Billings is in Toronto to-day, so she is not entertaining him this evening.”

“Oh!” I cried, flabbergasted.

“When you know more of the world, little niece—” he said.

“When you know more of the world, Little Partner,” this from Mr. Bang.

“But Uncle how do people tolerate such a fraud?” I put in.

“Tolerate! why people like it: it never deceives: it only amuses. Mrs. Mount and her sayings have amused us for twenty years.”

“Disgusting!” I felt annoyed.

“I suppose your experience has not been large enough to teach you philosophy enough for that,” put in Mr. Bang. Like his cheek to be patronizing me!

“The public taste for cheap notorieties, little people with a big noise, is on a par with its taste for literature and the drama,” said Mr. Bang, and the tone he used was bitter. As I am some day going to write a book, I thought I might as well find out more of this, so I turned to him and asked: “Do you really think so?”

“Certainly, the fact is plain as the nose on your—er—on my face. The man who cultivates a sound literary style and thinks the public will buy his books because of it, is not very far from the pawn shop.” (How vulgar!) “So, too, the young man or maiden who seeks to impress society with good manners would do better to tie his or her head in a wet blanket and cultivate a knowledge of what’s what.”

“Elsie, Jack thinks all society people fools,” laughed Mumsie.

“So they are!” stormed the young man. “Look how much trash on paper finds a ready market, while genius may be starving. Look at the social columns of our newspapers and see how nonentities find prominence.”

I was annoyed at this tirade, and the tone it was uttered in, the bitterness. “Do you mean to say,” I added, “that no clever people find eminence in society; how about the great Disraeli, is he not supposed to be the original of ‘Vivian Grey’?”

“That was England: this is Canada. Society in England is more catholic than here.”

I felt this was getting a little beyond me, so I doubled back. “Don’t you think,” I asked, “if some of your masters of literary style could produce a ‘best seller’ they would do so, and don’t you also think that some of your bright examples of good manners would be only too glad to occupy outstanding positions in society?”

“Absurd! Absurd!” stormed Mr. Bang. “A man of letters, a master of style, cannot write trash. I’m told that Conrad once tried to do it—and he couldn’t. Also it is impossible for a man of brains and good manners to attain eminence in the rushing society here. There is too little real recompense for the strain required. Vulgarity has no true attractiveness.”

“Don’t good manners count for anything?” I asked meekly. Jack—I mean Mr. Bang—smiled a smile of pitying tolerance.

“I once had an Englishman remark to me that he found the ruder he was to people here the more they esteemed him. He was a man of education and intelligence. I give you his opinion for what it is worth.”

“I can’t believe that,” I exclaimed.

“It is quite in keeping with the bluff of our social-climbers,” said Uncle.

They both were against me. I looked to Mumsie, but she shook her head, as if to say, “Where are they leading the child?”

“I can tell you it is unsafe even to offer a passing civility to a society lady one does not know. I met a girl once carrying golf clubs; we were members of the same club, I politely offered to relieve her of the load. She declined.”

“Poor Jack,” murmured Mumsie.

“The poor girl thought that if she accepted my civility I would make it the basis of acquaintance, and we had not been introduced. She did not know if I might belong to her set or not. As for the value she placed upon herself one may pity her.”

“But, Mr. Bang,—” I began, thinking that something could be said, surely, from the girl’s point of view.

“There is no but about it,” he interrupted, rudely. “I can read these people like a book ———”

“It’s the schools that do it,” Uncle cut in. “Our girls’ schools are too much under the domination of such monstrosities, fed with those delusions and snobberies. We need to educate our educationalists.” I could see that his feeling, too, was strong.

“The world is all wrong,” laughed Mumsie, satirically.

“Anyhow, the girls’ schools are wrong,” retorted Uncle. “Get at the inner workings of those institutions, and you find one or two brats of the Nouveaux Riches, at the head of the strongest clique, making life hell for the other girls, who won’t toady to them. The result is the school becomes a breeding ground for the society ‘bug’, as we have it in America. The rich girls have the biggest hampers, extravagant clothes, the most money to spend; and are encouraged to show off to the full. The girls’ school is the nursery-bed of worldliness.”

“And the boys’ schools?” asked Mumsie.

“Much the same: the natural cad once he enters a fraternity house, dons a smoking jacket, sticks a pipe in his mouth and thinks he is a superior being. The whole system—for boys and girls—is rotten and wrong.”

“I may say,” put in my fellow guest, “that close on the time I asked Miss Fashion if I might carry her golf-sticks I met a poor woman carrying a valise. I took it from her. She was grateful. The moral is that one may help the old and homely, but not the young and gay.”

“The old need help more than the strong,” said Uncle.

“That reminds me of the story of the Irishman in the street-car, who gave up his seat to a wizened old maid,” said Mumsie. “ ‘Thank you very much,’ said she. ‘Not at all, not at all,’ replied Paddy. ‘Some people they gets up only when a good-looking girl wants a seat, but I don’t, sez I to meself sez I, Pat, it’s the sex ye should honour, not the individual. Not at all mum, not at all’.”

The joke was new to me and I laughed. The men creatures brightened up too. So I gained new courage and asked: “The boys and girls of the old families,—what of them?”

“Ah, now, Elsie,” said Uncle, “you are touching upon the really sad phase of the question. The spectacle of the son or daughter of self-respecting people fawning on the vulgar-rich is unspeakably deplorable, and, unfortunately, becoming more common day by day.”

“Agreed, Uncle,” cried Mr. Bang, “and even more apparent in conservative old England.”

“The kingdom of the mind,—that’s putting it briefly—weakens before the spell of the motor and the dizzy whirl,” continued Uncle.

“The only remedy is War,”^[1] said Mr. Bang, and seemed to glare at me.

“War!” I exclaimed, “how awful!” and I glanced from the one to the other.

Mumsie shook her head despairingly and rose from the table. As we left the dining-room Uncle put his arm over my shoulder. “I hope my ideas don’t frighten you,” he said. “You are to enjoy life.” Dear Uncle!

Two experiences I have had to-day, making the acquaintance of Mrs. Mount, and meeting Mr. Bang. Were my relations with them reversed, were I to meet Mr. Bang only occasionally or not at all, and live in the same house as Mrs. Mount, I feel I should be happier. That shows what I think of Jack Bang’s social fears.

I don’t know what to make of Mr. Bang, except that I think I do not like him. Why Uncle and he do not like society is because society does not like them, and society does not like them because—they take life too seriously.

But, I may as well record my impression of this interfering visitor. Mr. Bang is fully six feet tall and his shoulders broad. His hair and small moustache are black; his face square, clean-cut, and certainly powerful. In repose his face is thoughtful, sometimes even abstracted. I will put down what he says, for what it may be worth, to use his own words. I’m afraid he will be a kill-joy.

I will tell Mumsie confidentially, I am writing a book; and if Uncle learns I am writing, the fact I have already confided in her will save me from embarrassment. Again Mr. Bang called me Little Partner as he said good-night—I suppose I am still a child in his eyes. How dare he!

December 23rd.

Shopping, Mumsie and I went down town. The Christmas rush is on and happiness was abroad. The snowflakes were falling softly. I bought Mumsie a pair of gloves. For Uncle, a box of cigars at $1.25, and for his nephew a silk handkerchief, of all colours. We met the Bassett girls with their mother in Lewis’s. It appears to me that I am always meeting the Bassetts. My mind is fully made up. I’m for society with a big “S”. The Bassetts and other good people bore me to death. I feel as if I’ve burnt my boats. All the better!

Of course, I took Ethel’s hand with cordiality: I realize that if I am to be a society success I must be nice to everybody, whatever I feel. But there was a price to pay: she returned my cordiality by asking me to go skating with her in the evening; and before I could invent an excuse Mumsie told me to accept “and take Jack.” Heavens!—and all I could do was to smile and say “Thank you, I shall be delighted.” Ethel and Mr. Bang! In parting Ethel said she would call for us.

We met Mr. Bang by appointment.

Our cavalier had loaded himself with parcels. He remarked, apologetically, that the delivery men would have enough work to do as it was: and even then when Mumsie made more purchases he insisted on carrying them. “I’ve done enough hard work to sympathize with any worker,” he said. Worker indeed! I could not help wondering what Mrs. Lien or Mrs. Mount would say if they saw us. However, Mumsie seemed indifferent. I suppose Uncle’s ideas have had some effect.

After lunch Mumsie and I walked out to deliver presents. I was introduced to many of her friends; all genial, placid, and uninteresting. Dinner passed with nothing said worth recording, and after dinner Ethel Bassett came and gathered up Mr. Bang and myself. We walked to the rink.

As we entered the large, spectral building, Ethel signed our names in a book and there was no charge for admission, which puzzled me. When we entered the dressing-room there were no young rowdies about as is always the case in our small rink at home. I was still more at a loss to comprehend, the situation when I noticed the boys and girls present were all well dressed, evidently society folk.

The girls were congregated in one section of the large dressing-room, the boys in the other. Mr. Bang, of course, went to the men’s section. I took everything in, but still was mystified. Ethel began changing her boots, so I did too. My wonder growing, I whispered: “Why, Ethel, what is this?” The new conditions were so different from anything I had met before.

“Why don’t you know? I thought you knew. That is the Skating Club,” she whispered in return.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, and I almost blurted out—“then I shall see some society people.” I wonder if I am really a snob! I’m afraid—

We left the dressing-room and descended to the ice. The immense, arched roof was studded with electric lights. This then was the Skating Club about which I had so often read in the society columns of our paper at home.

At first I skated into a corner with Ethel, and watched the others. The ice was covered with boys and girls, men and women, practising fancy figures: some were evidently adepts, others as evidently less expert. A few found partners and went off in a way I had never seen before. I watched and waited. Mr. Bang skated up and chatted with Ethel. I kept my eye on a girl dressed in green velvet, who with her partner, was performing wonders. All this was new to me and—enchanting!

My dream was suddenly broken; the band struck up and almost every man sought a partner and away they went in the waltz, actually waltzing on ice. Mr. Bang came up and asked if I waltzed. I replied that I didn’t. This avowal might under other circumstances have caused me pain.

He and Ethel then went to skate, but were evidently not as good skaters as the majority present. Ethel particularly, did not seem to have mastered the art. She and Jack did not seem to skate so smoothly and confidently as the others. But how I envied the girl in green: I was fascinated by her, enthralled.

The band stopped, and I sighed; my friends came back to me.

“You must learn to waltz, Little Partner,” Mr. Bang remarked kindly.

“Yes,” I replied without enthusiasm. I did not relish having Ethel hear me addressed as “Little Partner,” though she seemed neither shocked nor amused. I would positively have disliked the girl in green to have been a witness.

“Ethel, who is that girl in green?” I had to ask.

“Doesn’t she skate beautifully—that’s Mabel Lien.”

“Mabel Lien! She does,” I sighed. I thought of her grandfather and mine, the disparity between the girl in green and myself; she sought after, petted and pampered, in fine plumage: and me—! For two pins I’d be a socialist.

A young man came up and engaged Ethel for the next band. He was introduced to me and then they went away skating, hand in hand. So Mr. Bang and I were left together. He amused himself by twirling away at figures, while I resumed my reverie.

Mr. Bang asked me to try and skate with him. We tried and failed. I was counted a good skater among the girls at home. I asked my cavalier who Mabel Lien had for a partner, and was told, “Polly Townsend.” Polly!

Then Ethel came back with her companion, who asked if I waltzed. On answering no, he said, “So sorry,” lifted his cap and skated away. No person asked Ethel for the succeeding “band”—as they call it—so she kindly tried to teach me the waltz while Mr. Bang secured one of the few dowdy girls present, and went away. Ethel may not be a social figure, but is certainly unselfish and kind. I must remember that.

She explained the strokes I should master, and said I should practise with Mr. Bang. Mr. Bang! I’m sick of Mr. Bang. I asked Ethel if any of the good skaters ever asked her to skate and she replied they did not. When I asked her if she knew any of them, she answered “Nearly all.” I do not know what to make of this. I hope I did not hurt Ethel’s feelings. Anyhow it is funny.

Ethel pointed out to me Doris Mount, who did not skate at all well, not nearly as well as she herself did. Polly Townsend was then skating with her. I suppose Polly finds it convenient to do the polite to her; while no person found it necessary to be polite to Ethel; and as for myself I might as well have been “not present.”

One person, at any rate, was pleased with Doris Mount—her mother sat on the promenade and leaning on the rail glued her eyes on her daughter. She was alone, so I left the ice and walked to where she sat. Her greeting was not cordial; but I seated myself beside her, deciding to await her humour. I was pleased to consider her abstracted; she kept dangling her muff over the ice.

At last I exclaimed, “Oh! Mrs. Mount,”—the exclamation was in the idea of leading her to thinking I was suddenly visited by an inspiration from the Heavens. Of course this was in imitation of Mumsie’s greeting when she stopped Mrs. Mount on the street. “I have remembered what you said about meeting only nice people, so I have decided to ask you to introduce me, will you?”

“Who brought you here?” she asked abruptly and coldly. I felt snubbed: but my blood was up.

I would have answered “Ethel Bassett”, but realized that the inference she would draw would be hardly fair to Ethel, so I answered, “Mr. Bang,” feeling a martyr as I did so.

“But he is not a member,” she objected.

There was nothing for it, so I said: “And Miss Bassett.”

“Humph,” she snorted, “I don’t know really: the Bassett girl can’t do anything for you, her father is an old fogey and the mother has no go. They have no money;” reflectively and then more good naturedly, “well all right,” and kept on dangling her muff while she turned her eyes for a moment on me. I cannot say I was proud of myself. As I write this for my own eyes, I confess I am ashamed of myself. However!

The band stopped, the waltz was ended and up skated Doris and Polly. I was introduced to them. “Ask her for a band,” Mrs. Mount commanded Polly, “and ask Jerry Davidson and Leith MacKenzie to be introduced and to give her a band. Doris, my dear, you look lovely to-night. Yes, really!”

Doris beamed, while Polly replied:

“Really, Mrs. Mount, I’m engaged every band; you know I always skate the fifth with Doris.”

“Well, give the girl a show; ask MacKenzie.” Both Mr. MacKenzie and Mr. Davidson were therefore brought up and introduced. The latter had all his bands engaged and the smile he wore as he announced the fact was very complacent. I hated him for it, but hid my wrath. Mr. MacKenzie asked me for the seventh band.

“You are very kind, thank you, Mrs. Mount,” I whispered, when the others had departed. “It must be so nice to be able to command kindness for strangers. I’ve heard Uncle speak so loudly (it was no lie for Uncle did speak loudly whenever he discussed Mrs. Mount) of your goodness.”

She looked at me with a penetrating gaze, and then smiled as she returned to contemplate her daughter. However, she added after a few minutes—it was kind of her on the whole. “Now, my dear, you’ll have to learn to skate, if you want the boys to give you bands. Look how beautifully my Doris glides over the shimmering ice.”

The ice was not shimmering, but weather-stained and dull, and Doris skated abominably—by comparison with the other girls.

“Your daughter is very beautiful, more beautiful even than her skating,” I commented. I don’t seem to be able to lie with all the assurance I would wish, but my untruthfulness was sufficient.

“Do you know, really, I think she is. How long is your stay in town?” Mrs. Mount’s voice was kinder still.

“A month or six weeks, Mumsie—Mrs. Somers—asked me for. I should like to live in the city always. So many nice people are to be met in the city.”

Mrs. Mount swung her muff for another minute, and then she said:

“You are a sensible little girl. I have a great mind—”

She paused as if she felt she was liable to say too much. I waited expectantly, eagerly. What was in her mind, what idea was then being discreetly curbed? I could not help but feel she was thinking of taking me under her wing.

There was nothing I could say or do, no prompting I could give, to consolidate her ideas into words. I could only guess. I felt very much as one feels on hearing of a great treasure at the bottom of the sea. It would do Mrs. Mount no harm to give me an opportunity of making friends.

The sixth band came to an end and Doris with her partner, and others, came again to her mother. I took no part in the chattering —for I was yet in doubt as to what had been in Mrs. Mount’s mind and now was likely never to know.

The seventh band struck up, and MacKenzie came for me. We skated away but I told him I could not waltz, so we practised in a corner. He has a funny little face, with a pointed nose, the skin covering of which is tight and transparent. His mouth twitched when he intended to smile and his speech was affected. He followed one question with another. He professed not to know anything of Mumsie or Uncle, and when I inadvertently mentioned Mr. Bang, his jaw dropped. At the end of the band he skated hurriedly away. A nice man!

Soon I hinted to Ethel that I should be glad to go home and she agreed, so we changed our footgear and went. As we passed Mrs. Mount I whispered: “Thank you very much for the introduction, Mrs. Mount. I enjoyed myself immensely.”

On the way home I allowed Ethel to monopolize Mr. Bang. They got on well together and seemed to be talking earnestly. But my mind was full of thought. I have decided to make a bold venture. I have, I realize, minted my self-respect; and am doling it out coin upon coin. As yet, I must own to myself, the returns have been nil; no pleasure—rather chagrin: no gratification—rather depression. But still! I’m afraid I’m self-conscious in the presence of Ethel or Mr. Bang. Not that it makes much difference if either of them judges the import of my actions. But let me hope that, after I’ve paid, and paid, and paid, that I shall some day realize my happiness.

December 24th.

Christmas Eve! I woke this morning with a new fund of spirits—I’m glad to say. I went off into the city to see the crowds. Mr. Bang accompanied me. He said he had a business engagement. We parted in the business section.

I know all the streets now, or most of them, and can find my way about nicely. I did not meet any of my friends, or anybody I knew. While pleasant and interesting, it was an uneventful morning.

Shortly after my return Mr. Bang arrived carrying a bundle which proved to contain a quantity of evergreen wreathing. This he dumped on the drawing-room floor, remarking: “You may help me decorate this afternoon, Little Partner.”

After lunch we set to work, festooning the chandeliers and picture frames, and soon I became absorbed in the effort—and in Mr. Bang’s conversation. For the time being I forgot society and found myself laughing quite merrily. In fact, I confess I was thoroughly happy.

Mr. Bang, like Uncle, has a tendency to run off into long, confidential dissertations. He began to talk about himself, and I was interested. I will try and reproduce what he said in his own words. He is rather fond of long words, which sometimes are ponderous.

“I’m engaged in driving a tunnel on the Rat River Railway; MacDonald, who is my partner, and I have the contract. This will keep us going for months. It is an important piece of work and he is here negotiating for it. There is plenty of red-tape in the way, so I am likely to be here a tolerable time. Shall you be glad?”

Fancy asking me that question! “I shall be glad if you have a good time,” I said cautiously.

“There is no reason you should be glad if I stay, so far as I can see,” he said frankly. “I asked the question simply out of interest in your reply. May I confess that I take an interest in my ‘Little Partner,’ and am anxious to learn if society is spoiling her? She is too good to be spoiled.” He looked at me as if he were looking through me.

“Why?” I demanded, startled by the trend of his conversation.

“You have a conscience and—you have a heart.”

“I!”

“Yes,” and again this man’s serious eyes were upon me. Evidently he saw through my motives last night. I thought of last night, of Ethel Bassett’s goodness to me and my mental attitude towards her—and the humiliation attending my talk with Mrs. Mount.

“I’m afraid—” I began, and faltered, not quite knowing what to say.

“The fact that you’re afraid shows you have a conscience.”

“Do you like the West?” I asked, to change the conversation.

“The West! I love the West. British Columbia is the best province in Canada; the climate the best, the scenery the grandest, the people the nicest.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” I laughed.

“But, of course, my ideas of nice people are different from those of say, Mrs. Mount.”

“Yes!” I said, somewhat mischievously. He went on:

“Many of us were poor when we went West, but the thing is that we’re cosmopolitan and have formed the habit of looking below the surface of things. Remember that! The social side of life out West is different from the East. So are the people. Here the fellows are all the same; were you to throw a dozen fellows into a sack and heave them about, the product of one grab from the bag would be the same as another. You could not tell them apart, all with the same narrow views of life.” Mr. Bang then suddenly changed his tone, “I’m ready to admit the fellows here have as much right to hate me as I have to hate them.”

“You hate them, hate the East?”

“I hate the East, or rather the hollowness and shallowness of its people, their snobbery, their affectations, silly emulation, mean ambitions and limitations; their patronizing impertinences.”

The delivery of this weighty charge relieved him, for he smiled and proposed a walk.

At dinner I talked of my Skating Club experiences, Uncle opening the way by asking how I had enjoyed myself. I replied, “Nicely, thank you,” and followed up with the announcement that I had met Polly Townsend, Mr. MacKenzie, and Mr. Davidson.

“Ah, so you met Polly Townsend. That was an experience. What did you think of him?”

“I liked him, that is, I think I do, though he did not skate with me. I really———”

“Polly would be a profitable study, if you are seriously interested in such folk. A study of such insects is helpful to establishing an entomological view of society.”

“Well,” I said, “he is the best skater——”

“Pooh! His skating is the least interesting phase of Polly. He is the expression of modern social finesse. He has no brains, no manners, save those that are bad, no money——”

“No money! then that discredits the theory that wealth is necessary in society,” I sang out.

“Therein lies whatever genius the man possesses,” exclaimed Uncle with glee. “Polly has a wealth of impertinence, of self-assurance, and conceit. By birth he should be a gentleman, but a gentleman’s instincts he lacks. Whatever he does, he does well,—tennis, golf, skating. Even his self-adulation is masterly. But of the things that really matter he is a futility. He can be ineffably rude, insolent, contemptible through his contemptuousness.”

“From this one may gather———”

“That the snub is an effective lever with weak human nature. We are jealous of our sensibilities and guard them. When social exigencies compel us to approach such as Polly, we lift our hat to the conqueror. The only self-respecting way to treat Polly is to leave him alone; but because of his success in sport, at the golf club, and so on, Polly is an unavoidable evil.”

“Poor Polly?” I dared to ask, as Uncle closed his long speech.

“His chin goes in,” he rejoindered, as if he enjoyed it, “his forehead goes back, his nose is squash, and his voice resembles—as you suggest—that of ‘Poor Poll’.”

I realized the resemblance.

“And Mr. Davidson?”

“Davidson? Merely a snob—only that and nothing more.”

“Mr. MacKenzie?”

“A monstrosity,” spoke up Mr. Bang, “yet he taught me a good lesson.”

“How could Mr. MacKenzie teach you a lesson?” I exclaimed laughingly, although I couldn’t help emphasizing the “you.” The emphasis was, however, apparently quite lost on Mr. Bang. His composure and gravity were serene, as he replied:

“Once in early youth I came to this city and hoped to become a member of a tennis club to which MacKenzie belonged. I knew Mac and schemed to improve our acquaintance in order to help me in. I invited him to lunch, filled him with wine, attempted to talk on literature, and finally told him I was a tennis enthusiast.”

Mr. Bang paused, and Uncle asked mischievously:

“Did he respond?”

“He responded by asking if he might insure my life.”

We roared, that is, save Mr. Bang.

“That was a cold douche which drowned my social ambitions. I reasoned that society that would tolerate such a Yahoo as he had nothing to offer worth having.”

“The girls laugh at him,” said Mumsie.

“Possibly,” replied Mr. Bang, who began to unburden himself further.

“The trouble with most of our sports is that they are, as Uncle says, communal and in the hands of devotees who build them up. Cliques are formed which such people as Townsend and MacKenzie run. Golf is somewhat the exception to this general rule, which possibly accounts for the ever increasing popularity of the game. Golf clubs, generally, make provisions for the admittance of strangers, and, for some reason or other, good-fellowship is more common in golf clubs than in other associations.”

“That’s true,” commented Uncle.

“I generally tell people whom I meet casually,” continued Mr. Bang, “that I have navvied and mined throughout the West, especially if they suggest themselves to me as being a bit snobbish, and I often find myself treated as a tough character. I do this merely to be honest. I daresay this is a mistake, for people ascribe my candour to simplicity.”

“What do you do with the tenderfoot when he arrives in the West?” I asked Mr. Bang.

“We treat him well and give him a show. If he is loaded with nonsense we kindly knock it out of him.”

Was there ever a stranger character than this Mr. Bang? In spite of my dislike for him, I am becoming interested.

“The westerner’s quarrel with the easterner is not unique,” put in Uncle as his nephew ceased speaking. “It is the same with the Englishman who returns home from Australia or Rhodesia. Frontier communities are made up of wanderers; and its social life frames itself to suit the scallywag. Settled communities have no experience in such wanderers, and their prejudices are strong.”

Uncle made this explanation dispassionately, as if he simply wished to further my understanding. I suppose I am still a child in my knowledge of the world. But I’m cleverer than they seem to think. Men are self-satisfied creatures, sometimes.

After dinner we went into the city, walked into the crowded streets. Sleighbells were ringing, here, there, and everywhere. Sleighbells are almost the jolliest thing about Christmas; the automobile horns sounded out of place. There was a great deal of laughing and of merry greetings to be heard.

Mr. Bang is certainly prodigal with his money. He gave a poor boy a dollar and told him to buy a new shirt; and he gave a poor, old woman two dollars. He did not do it secretly, nor ostentatiously, but in an open-hearted, matter-of-course sort of way. I suppose it is the result of his western training.

But if Mr. Bang hates eastern society, I confess the more I see of its movement and brightness, the more I intend to get on. The way will open—I know that—and I am quite rid of the queer ideas that filled my mind last night. I can make use of Mr. Bang and Ethel Bassett, and possibly—Mrs. Mount, “that old battle-axe,” who is more like, shall I say, a Fairy Godmother. Possibly, we’ll see.

Christmas Day.

Such a heavenly day, sunshine with ice crystals, no wind.

Mumsie came into my room at peep of dawn, carrying a bundle. There was a letter in it from Dad enclosing another hundred dollars for me to spend. Dear old Dad! And then there was a parcel marked, “From Jack to his Little Partner.” I undid the fastenings and there were four shaggy, hairy skins. I could not make out what they were. And a pair of gloves from Mumsie—women always give gloves. I tried on the gloves and Mumsie suggested that we go to early service.

I jumped out of bed and as I dressed looked at the furs,—I had never seen anything like them, so brown and glossy. What sort of an animal could they have belonged to?

I went downstairs and saw a fire burning in the den and two men standing before it—Uncle and Jack. So I entered the room, and a cheery voice greeted me with “Merry Christmas!” and Uncle gathered me in his arms and kissed me. Mr. Bang, rather dolefully echoed: “Merry Christmas!” It struck me as strange that Uncle had not given me a present, even if only a handkerchief. I shook hands with Mr. Bang and said, “Thank you very much for the skins.”

“They’re nothing,” he replied almost indifferently. “Uncle is going to have them made into a muff and collar for you as his present. I got the skins from an Indian. You see,” continued he in his usual tone, “the British Columbia government has shut down on the destruction of beaver for a number of years to save these animals from becoming extinct, and it is against the law to have the skins in one’s possession.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “then you ran chances of being fined for my sake. How good you are!”

“No, not so good, as I did not know of your existence at the time, and could hardly have been concerned with that. What I mean is that they did not cost me much. As the animals were already dead my conscience did not trouble me and I took particular pains to give such small value for the skins, that I don’t fancy the noble red man will think it worth his while to break the law again.”

I do not know how to describe the manner of address used by Mr. Bang to me and I have borrowed Uncle’s dictionary to help me out. “Didactic” will hardly do, nor will “pedantic.” Perhaps “patronizing” is the only term that I can apply to it, but then “patronizing” is not quite just. Of course, Uncle is equally guilty at times, but only at times; and I love Uncle. And if I am to have a complete set of furs at their hands, I can forgive much! Perhaps “elderly” or “condescending” is the word: but it doesn’t matter.

But were Mr. Bang and Uncle serious. Beaver!—I have seen beaver, soft, grey, delicate fur, and this is bristling like a porcupine almost. So I thought I would begin a question and then stammer. If I laughed prettily, I could appear innocent: and I did so successfully, though there is often a doubtful, pitying look in Jack’s quizzical, grey eyes.

“Oh! Uncle do tell me, are beavers ever born with—with—Oh, I don’t know—something like—first cousin—Porcupine—long hairs—”

“Oh,” laughed Uncle, while Mr. Bang grinned broadly, “You are troubled over the shaggy appearance of the skins. They have not been plucked—the long coarse hairs are generally plucked from the beaver, otter, fur seal, and a few others, when the fur remaining is soft and silky.”

“And I may have mine made into real beaver—how lovely!”

“I would suggest,” put in Mr. Bang, still smiling, “that you leave them as they are, they would become you and not be unfashionable.”

“Would they?” I asked, impetuously turning to Uncle.

“As Jack suggests, I think they would be becoming,” and Uncle smiled. “You can always trust Jack.”

“Then I shall,” I said and left them. I meant leave the skins as they were, and if they thought I meant trusting Jack that is their look-out.

After breakfast I saw Bowman, the man who tends Uncle’s furnace and clears away the snow, passing out into the street with a cigar box under his arm. I was sure it was the box I gave Uncle. I thought I would investigate so I went into the den where the two men were smoking. They were enjoying cigars, the odour of which seemed fine.

“Oh Uncle!” I cried, “I’m so glad to find you smoking. I noticed Bowman with a cigar box under his arm and I wondered——”

“Bowman takes such things as empty cigar boxes as his perquisites, see!”—and Uncle took a jar off the mantle and removing the cover showed me many cigars. Both of them then laughed. I was very annoyed.

Whenever I am in Mr. Bang’s presence he gazes intently at me and I am beginning to loathe his quiet smile. Nothing escapes him, and after Uncle’s explanation I’m sure he saw me start as I noticed a half consumed cigar box in the grate. Evidently there were the contents of two boxes of cigars in the jar.

In any case I won’t trouble my head about what Uncle did with my cigars. I dislike men very much sometimes.

Dinner came at four and Mumsie had the table looking like a dream, such a sparkle of glass and silver, setting off the roses and carnations nicely. And the holly and mistletoe, which over-shadowed the lamp, and the bon-bons,—the crackers lying on each napkin! Oh, it was delicious! I may say heavenly.

Mumsie was at her brightest, looking the picture of Christmas geniality. Uncle, too, was particularly kind as he welcomed us to the feast. Someway, I was impressed that all and everything were for me. All Uncle’s pleasantries were addressed to me or for my benefit. I believe Uncle is becoming fond of me.

His good nature seemed also to affect Mr. Bang, who told us stories of his own, wild life, and incidents in the lives of others; and in his calm way he can be very humorous. Then he told of the many strange circumstances under which he had eaten his Christmas dinner—in camps, in towns and cities, in hotels, in homes, in log cabins, even under canvas. And then I noticed his mouth draw into a smile, as he fixed his eyes on his wine glass which he kept absently turning.

“What have you in your mind, Jack?” asked Mumsie.

“I was thinking of the only Christmas dinner I ever ate away from friends or acquaintances and how in this case, I met poor Tom Dahlmun. It was in Dawson City, Christmas, 1900—”

“Tell us of it,” demanded Uncle.

“You never told us how you came to go to the Klondike,” said Mumsie; “Please tell us about it.”

“To tell you how I came to go to the Klondike and my adventures in getting there would be a longer story than you would care to listen to,” he protested.

“Do, do tell us all about it,” I cried eagerly.

“Well, I will abstain from frills, and try and not weary you.”

“You won’t do that,” I said with assurance.

“With your permission, Auntie, I shall in my telling of my adventures affect the manner of the miner at his camp-fire. Now and again I may mention details that appear inconsequent.”

“Never mind, go on!”

“Well, about September, 1900, I was at Skagway on the Alaskan Coast without money, and with no prospect of profitable employment.

“The Canadian Customs at Skagway gave me short jobs, but by the end of the month they petered out and I was faced with the necessity of finding means even for food.

“There seemed no alternative but to go south. But I harboured the idea of going to Dawson and some fiend nourished it. No more quixotic plan can ever have entered the mind of man, but I went.

“I crossed to White Horse, the port on the Upper Yukon River. The thermometer had sunk below zero, though the weather was mild. I spent some days figuring ways and means of carrying out my mad idea, and spent more dollars than I could afford. I shall always maintain that friendships struck up in a bar-room are productive of nothing but losses and waste of time.

“Possibly I was inspired with a blind faith in fortune or I didn’t care a ——— button. Somebody suggested I should try and work my way on one of the steamers. I tried and failed. A good thing too, for I would have earned little or no money that way and been landed five hundred miles nearer the north pole, and so much further from civilization.

“Then came the voice of destiny; a man called from a scow tied to the dock: ‘Do you want to go to Dawson? Give you seven and a half dollars per day.’ ‘All right,’ said I.

“The wage was high, which is an indication that travel was not northwards. The weather turned wonderfully mild, considering the recent exploits of the thermometer, and the sun shone brightly as we set out to the unknown. Only one of us had been down that river before.

“I was one of a party of six and our craft consisted of two scows lashed together. Each scow contained twenty tons of freight, and three thousand two hundred dollars was to be paid for transporting this to Dawson. My companions consisted of the four owners and a chap who was working his passage to his camp down the river, where he was engaged chopping wood for sale to the river steamers.

“One of the owners was a Yankee, two were Scotch-Canadians, and one was a Swede. The Yankee had worked all summer as deck-hand on a river steamer and so had knowledge of the currents. One of the Scotchmen was a Salvation Army man and the other just old Mac. The Swede was a decent fellow. All but the Yankee were straight-forward. He, Alec, would never look one in the face, and was of a nature soft and unassertive. I should have felt more comfortable with him had he occasionally lost his temper and sworn a bit. His only qualification was his knowledge of the river.

“I soon gathered the business details. The four owners had built one scow and tried to sell it, but, through the lateness of the season and difficulty in getting men to man it, were unable to dispose of it. So they purchased another scow and essayed to get their money out of both by contracting to deliver freight in Dawson.

“The joy of such a trip is the scenery; and then the appetite one is blessed with! Our trip through the Thirty Mile was somewhat remarkable. This river is a part of the Upper Yukon, and has caused more wrecks than any other portion of the great waterway.

“It was strewn with wrecks of scows which had tried to get through in the day time. We went through at night for the good and sufficient reason that we could not stop.

“The Thirty Mile is very swift, and our Pilot was reluctant to tie up any sooner than was absolutely necessary. In fact, on this occasion it was I who made the suggestion that we moor to the bank ere darkness had completely come.

“Strange to say my advice was acted upon; the pilot grabbed a rope and ordered the scows to be diverted towards the left bank. Then he made a spring, landed, and sought a tree to which he might tie up. There was none, but rather a world of fallen brush. The scows were moving at better than six miles per hour, and with the result that the pilot, trying in vain to keep up with us, was forced to let go the rope. There was only one thing to do, and that was for somebody on the scows to take the dingey we had with us and row back for our mate. This was done with the result that the scows were left with four men only to manage them. The gloom settled over us and the shores were dimly visible, while we swept down the canyon. A heavily-laden scow travels faster than the current that bears it. This explains how we obtained a good lead on the dingey. The light then failed, and the only thing visible was the reflection of the sky on the water. I began to give orders, or, I had better say, make suggestions. I became frightened of leaving the dingey altogether, or of coming to other calamities, so I told my fellows I would attempt to tie up the scows. Our shouts to the pilot and his rescuer brought response from both up and down the river. There was evidently a scow safely moored below us. Hastily we shouted our trouble, and the crew of the moored scow said we might tie to them. Frantically we worked to get the scows across the current for they were tied to the right bank; it was no use, we passed them. But the impetus we gained was carrying us into the right bank. Vaguely I saw the shadows, jumped, and landed up to my hips in water. I scrambled ashore and ran into a wall of rock. The rope I held tightened, and I followed its lead along the face of the rock till I went in to my middle; and then I, too, let go the rope.

“In due time, the boat picked me up and we set out in pursuit of the scows. We gained on them; finally gathering from the shouting that the woodcutter had gained the shore, had thrice snubbed the scows and the scows three times pulled a tree up by the roots. So Alec shouted to let the scows drift. We pulled the woodcutter into the boat and then regained the scows.

“The moon had risen over the canyon and light and shadow, glimmering water and sparkling skies, ranged themselves in wonderful combination, all weird, some magnificent. I remember that besides marvelling at the sights about me, I remarked the softness of the air. What the thermometer was I do not know, it could not have been much, if at all, above freezing, yet, while I was wet to the middle I have no recollection of being cold.

“In due time we floated into a great lagoon on the shores of which was a settlement. A dozen or so of river men and prospectors, a gambler or two, and a couple of policemen here had their abode.

“The stillness of lone lands is one of their special features. I know I enjoyed it, and my companions had no doubt some rude, unconscious sympathy with the natural beauties. At any rate, as the hoarse laughter floated across the lagoon it sounded a discord, and hearing it men became quiet.

“I have spoken of our capacity for eating. I shall never forget the moose tenderloin steaks we got from Indians at Little Salmon River. The joy of eating! civilization knows nothing like it. The best of fresh meat after weeks of bacon!

“At Little Salmon River, a tributary stream, the heavy frosts came upon us again, and here an interesting development affected our night’s rest. Our beds were made upon the cargo and beneath a great tarpaulin. No poles suspended the canvas; it lay flat against the hay and oats that constituted our load. The vapour arising from the comparatively warm water in the scow, the water that would correspond to the bilge of a ship, condensed upon the canvas. The effect was a coating of beautiful ice crystals, some of them an inch long. In the daylight they showed the most orderly system of spears and shafts, elaborate yet exact.

“As we crawled to our lairs at night the fairy-like ferns tingled joyously and fell upon us in wintry showers. In the morning they melted and drenched us. But we did well enough. Between times through the night we slept, all standing, as the sailors say, warm and comfortable.

“Frost is a most powerful agent in the north land. As you may guess, King Frost is a term used widely and not without reason. Indeed our passage was eminently a kindly dispensation of the monarch. As day succeeded day the ultimate closing of the mighty jaws of the river drew nearer. The owners’ money, my money, all our fortunes, depended on the absence of delays. Delays while inevitable, humanly speaking, were still a matter of chance. We were held at the caprice of winter.

“Jack Frost is indeed versatile. Not only did he commence to throw cakes of ice in the river, but placed a more active, if less tangible hindrance in our way. Over the river in the early mom a billowy, swaying, pink, yellow, purple, orange, blue mantle of mist hung. To guide our craft it was necessary to see, for the Yukon’s stream has many channels, only one of which, as a rule, is navigable for such a vessel as ours. About us were sand bars and islands, and to run aground meant loss of precious time, and possibly destruction.

“Of course, the sun rising would in time dissipate the fog, but while Jack Frost and he had their morning game at tossing cloud banks, we would lose an hour or two. As the days went by, and we lay further towards the arctic circle, the frost became heavier and the daily range of temperature less marked. About three days from our goal we ran into a snow storm and passed a few tributaries throwing out lumps of ice. The presence of floating ice, however, was a blessing, because it marked the more shallow spots and helped us to avoid them. When the air was not filled with snow, the skies were gray and sullen. It was a blessing there was no wind.

“Our last night out from Dawson I remember distinctly. The running ice had filled the river. At dusk we tied up at a woodcutter’s cabin, and learned we had fifty miles still to go. We went to bed, under our tingling tarpaulin; and, I remember, I lay awake just one minute listening to the ice crashing into our craft. Would the planks hold? A moment’s apprehension, and then—sleep.

“We started again at a perilously early hour. The ice had increased enormously during the night. The river was ‘bank full’ as the term is; it was a grinding, mixing lot. Had we struck a bar the rush of ice would have piled us on so tight we never would have got off again. But to offset this, the shore ice had now extended so far out that only the deepest channels were running. We could not have got aground if we had wanted to.

“At six o’clock the night had fallen; we heard the toot of a factory whistle. Five hundred miles behind us we had left Whitehorse, an outpost of civilization. We had travelled by an agency over which we had no control five hundred miles, into a wilderness that ranged beyond the ken of men. Here was an oasis. A whistle, discordant at most times, was music to us then. It sang of dangers past.

“But our danger was not past until we succeeded in stopping. To be carried beyond Dawson would be as great a calamity as to be stranded above it. There was no difference so far as the discharge of our cargo was concerned.

“The lights flashed out and a thousand times winked welcome, irresistibly my mind fell to playing with the fact; here was a world in miniature and I at the heart of it.

“The river before Dawson is broad and there is a deep eddy. Strangely enough the eddy was yet unfrozen and free of ice. We struggled into the still water and so to shore. It took us an hour’s hard labour to get there. It was joy to hear a friendly hand on shore shout: ‘All fast!’

“We went to bed and slept as long as we liked: a luxury. Arising, we found the world a riot of colour. The sun was up, the air was clear save for the steam arising from the water, and the thermometer was twenty below zero. Away out in mid-channel the ice-floes still ground persistently on their way, but round about us was ice clear, black, and resonant. We were frozen in.”

Here Mr. Bang paused and looked enquiringly at Mumsie. Uncle caught the glance and reassured him.

“Go on, Jack, we’re interested.”

“Yes, Jack, indeed we are,” added Mumsie.

“And my Little Partner?” asked he.

“Oh! I am so interested, do go on.”

“I was in Dawson. I had made one hundred and ten dollars in wages on the trip down besides twenty-five dollars, which I earned by bringing a ballot-box in from the police post one hundred miles up the river. Dawson had just enjoyed its first experience of the Franchise.

“Had I been wise I would have stayed with my friends, who prudently secured a cabin and settled down for the winter. Instead of that, I engaged a room at the principal hotel at a cost of four dollars per day, European plan. Meals cost a dollar and a half each. Then instead of borrowing a hand-sled and hauling my trunk up from the scow, as a Dawsonite would have done, I engaged a boy with a dog. The dog’s name, I remember, was ‘Sleepy’ and the youth charged two dollars. The distance, be it said, was only about two hundred yards.

“As a matter of fact, Dawson was at that time remarkably free from convention and prejudice. I had in mind to try for clerical work from the Government. Had I been seen hauling my trunk through the streets or, given my address as such and such a cabin, my chances would have been none the less, while the dollars I might have saved would have represented so much security against starvation. But perhaps my risking an extravagant bid for preferment was supported by the knowledge that I was a Canadian in a city in Canada, where the vast majority of the population was alien; also I built on the hope that as one of my life’s best friends had formerly held high administrative office in the country, but was then in South Africa fighting, I might meet with particular consideration from the authorities. I found, however, that the dispenser of Government patronage in Dawson was the open enemy of my friend. So this source of interest failed.

“A friend of a relative spoke in my behalf to the all-powerful head of the political machine, and I was advised to apply. I did so. ‘How do you vote?’ he asked. I told him I had never voted in my life, but, as he of course knew, my people voted Tory. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I won’t do anything for you; we have to get back at you fellows, you know.’ This represents the spirit of the Grit administration in Dawson. Those who ruled, who pulled the wires would, and did assist, and grant favours to Yankees in preference to political opponents among their own people. And yet the Grits claim they are not pro-Yankee!

“Somehow I made the acquaintance of the ‘old man,’ one of the most remarkable characters in all the world. He was very strong in religion but weak on cleanliness; a slight, grizzled man with a stoop. He had a cabin, I had none. I had some money, he had none. Our duty to each other was obvious.