the granddaughter of two, she was just born to be a Duchess straight away. Duchess number two was quite the reverse of Duke number two. She was very much Vere de Vere to look at, very handsome, very imposing, but untidy withal, and though I don't like to say it of a Duchess, she didn't always look quite clean. I remember once asking another girl what must be the first thing necessary in the man she would marry, and she had said, 'Oh, that he should be clean.' I had laughed at the time, but when I saw that Duchess I understood. The man I marry too must be clean. Fortunately, a nice fresh cleanliness is the well-bred Englishman's chief characteristic. Duchess number three was my Duchess—that is to say, the Duchess I met on the floor in the ladies' cabin on the Dover-Calais boat. We became great friends. She was a dear, and we shall meet again when we get to Delhi. She isn't one of those people who, when they've got one foot on the ladder, use the other foot to keep everybody else from getting a foot on that ladder too. Instead, she holds out a hand, and says cheerfully: 'Here, come along, I've got one foot on this ladder, and if you buck up I'll try and make room for you too.' Now that's the sort of person I like. But they are rare.
There were lots of other people, oddities and absurdities, on board. There was the travelling M.P., of course, with philanthropic ideas and doubts as to the advisability of the Durbar. There was Lady Truefit and her daughter going out as guests of the Viceroy—they were very select in conse-
