Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. "Put it under my pillow," he said. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary.
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