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 happened at ten o'clock when probably it happened at half-past, and time wasn't of the essence of the story at all? Yet I know a dreadful truthful person like that at home. She nearly drives Aunt Agatha mad. For, in spite of Aunt Agatha's strong common-sense on most points, she's generally a bit vague as to times and dates and places. So she and that truthful person, whose conscience won't allow her to let any mistake pass without correcting it, don't exactly get on well together. You've got to diverge from the truth consciously or unconsciously some time or other, so you had best just make up your mind to it and not worry. 'Heaven can't be left empty. Some people must be allowed to go there,' as Aunt Agatha puts in it her downright way. 'But if they are going to keep people out for a trifling thing like telling a few fibs, there won't be anybody there at all.' So I always tell my hostess when I come down in the morning that I've slept well, and hope to be forgiven when it isn't true. 'Chota hazri,' I perhaps ought to explain is the 'little breakfast.' It's a kind of sandwich by the way to support you until you get to the real 'hazri' later on. 'Eat a good chota hazri,' Berengaria said, helping me to the homely dish of eggs and bacon, 'as you won't get anything else till eleven o'clock.' From the plentiful supply of eggs and bacon and cold beef and jam and fruit to which I succumbed, I felt that I could hold out much longer than till eleven o'clock.