The Young Visiters

but as soon as he is alone he rushes to Ethel’s door, “I say said  Mr. Salteena excitedly I have had some tea in bed.”
“Sometimes visitors came to the house.” Nothing much in that to us, but how consummately this child must have studied them; if you consider what she knew of them before the “viacle” arrived to take them back to the station you will never dare to spend another weekend in a house where there may be a novelist of nine years. I am sure that when you left your bedroom this child stole in, examined everything and summed you up. She was particularly curious about the articles on your dressing-table, including the little box containing a reddish powder, and she never desisted from watching you till she caught you dabbing it on your cheeks. This powder, which she spells “ruge,” went a little to her head, and it accompanies Ethel on her travels with superb effect. For instance, she is careful to put it on to be proposed to; and again its first appearance is excused in words that should henceforth be serviceable in every boudoir. “I shall put some red ruge on my face said Ethel becouse I am very pale owing to the drains in this house.”
Those who read will see how the rooms in Hampton Court became the “compartments” in the “Crystale” Palace, and how the “Gaierty” Hotel grew out of the Gaiety Theatre, with many other agreeable changes. The novelist will find the tale a model for his future work. How incomparably, for instance, the authoress dives into her story at once. How cunningly throughout she keeps us on the hooks of suspense, jumping to  Mr. Salteena when we are in a quiver about Ethel, and turning to Ethel when we are quite uneasy about  Mr. Salteena. This authoress of nine is flirting with her readers all the time. Her mind is such a rich pocket that as she digs in it (her head to the side and her tongue well out) she sends up showers of nuggets. There seldom probably was a novelist with such an uncanny knowledge of his characters as she has of  Mr. Salteena. The first line of the tale etches him for all time: “ Mr. Salteena was an elderly man of 42 and fond of asking people to stay with him.” On the next page Salteena draws a touching picture of himself in a letter accepting an invitation: “I do hope I shall enjoy myself with you. I am fond of digging in the garden and I am parshal to ladies if they are nice I suppose it is my nature. I am not quite a gentleman but you would hardly notice it but can’t be helped anyhow.”
“When the great morning arrived  Mr. Salteena did not have an egg for his breakfast in case he should be sick on the journey.” For my part I love  Mr. Salteena, who has a touch of Hamlet, and I wished up to the end that Ethel would make him happy, though I never had much hope after I read the description of Bernard Clark’s legs.
It is not to be wondered at that  Mr. Salteena soon grew “rarther jellous” of Bernard, who showed off from the first. “My own room is next the bathroom said Bernard it is decerated dark red as I have somber tastes. The bathroom has got a tip up basin.” Thus was  Mr. Salteena put in his place, and there the cruel authoress (with her tongue farther out than ever) doggedly keeps him. “After dinner Ethel played some merry tunes on the piano and Bernard responded with a rarther loud song in a base voice and Ethel clapped him a good deal. Then  Mr. Salteena asked a few riddles as he was not musicle.” No wonder  Mr. Salteena went gloomily to bed, not to sleep, but to think out the greater riddle of how to become a gentleman, with which triumphant adventure the book is largely concerned.
To many the most instructive part of the story will be the chapter entitled “Bernard’s Idear.” Bernard’s “idear” (warmly acclaimed by Ethel) is that she and he should go up to London “for a few weeks gaierty.” Something of the kind has often been done in fiction and in guidebooks, but never probably in such a hearty way as here. Arrived at the “Gaierty” Hotel Bernard pokes his head into the “window of the pay desk. Have you a couple of bedrooms for self and young lady he enquired in a lordly way.” He is told that they have two beauties. “Thank you said Bernard we will go up if you have no objection. None whatever sir said the genial lady the beds are well aired and the view quite pleasant. Come along Ethel cried Bernard this sounds alright eh. Oh quite said Ethel with a beaming smile.” He decides gallantly that the larger room shall be hers. “I shall be quite lost in that large bed,” Ethel says. “Yes I expect you will said Bernard and now what about a little table d’ote followed by a theatre?”
Bernard’s proposal should be carried in the pocket of all future swains. He decides “whilst imbibing his morning tea beneath the pink silken quilt,” that to propose in London would not be the “correct idear.” He springs out of bed and knocks at Ethel’s door. “Are you up my dear? he called. Well not quite said Ethel hastily jumping from her downy nest.” He explains his “idear.” “Oh hurrah shouted Ethel I shall soon be ready as I had my bath last night so won’t wash very much now.”
They go up the river in a boat, and after they had eaten and “drunk deeply of the charming viands ending up with merangs and chocklates,” Bernard says “in a passionate voice Let us now bask under the spreading trees. Oh yes lets said Ethel.” “Ethel he murmered in a trembly voice. Oh what is it said Ethel.” What it was (as well she knew) was love eternal.