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 up appearances"; and no more bitter phrase could, perhaps, have been invented to describe our childish folly.

If we possess a hundred pounds a year, do we not call it two? Our larder may be low and our grates be chill, but we are happy if the "world" (six acquaintances and a prying neighbour) gives us credit for one hundred and fifty. And, when we have five hundred, we talk of a thousand, and the all-important and beloved "world" (sixteen friends now, and two of them carriage-folks!) agree that we really must be spending seven hundred, or, at all events, running into debt up to that figure; but the butcher and baker, who have gone into the matter with the housemaid, know better.

After a while, having learnt the trick, we launch out boldly and spend like Indian Princes—or rather seem to