an ancestral neighbour, and show me the Marquis of Carabas, with his immortal feline friend, getting married in the reign of Francis I., from the castle at which I was a guest; and though the life at that summer castle was frightfully monotonous, one forgot the monotony in romantic associations. But this is an infrequent blessing. Unless you form one of a hunting party, I know nothing that palls more quickly upon the outsider than the kind of existence led in French châteaux. There are no day or evening amusements. Ladies between meals sit under trees and talk. If they always talked brilliantly upon general topics, this would be pleasant enough, but as all roads lead to Rome, so do all topics to-day in France lead directly or indirectly to politics, and this is fatal. Literature is only a tepid discussion on the latest novel: and this does not carry one far. Then there is a solemn walk with your hostess about the grounds, or a drive outside, and in the evening after dinner a game of bezique with somebody, or the pleasure of watching somebody else play "patience," and conversation of a not too thrilling kind. Should your hostess or any other visitor be exceptional, delight and pleasure can be extracted from notable talk; but in the case of ordinary men and women, it is very trying to meet together for the dismal satisfaction of being bored simultaneously. The proprietors naturally do not realise
