We've got such a sweet little house in Lowndes Street--to my mind the very best situation in London. When I say _we_, of course I mean Aunt Deborah and myself. We live together, as I hope we always shall do, as Aunt Deborah says, till "one of us is married." And notwithstanding the difference of our ages we get on as comfortably as any two forlorn maidens can. Though a perfect fairy palace within, our stronghold is guarded by no giant, griffin, dragon, or dwarf; nothing more frightful than a policeman, whose measured tread may be heard at the midnight hour pacing up and down beneath our windows. "It's a great comfort," says Aunt Deborah, "to know that assistance is close at hand. I am a lone woman, Kate, and I confess to feeling nervous when I lie awake." I quite agree with my aunt, though I'm not nervous, but I must say I like the idea of being watched over during the hours of sleep; and there is something romantic in hearing the regular tramp of the sentinel whilst one is curled up snug in bed. I don't much think it always is the policeman--at least I know that one night when I got up to peep if it was a constable, he was wrapped in a very loose cloak, such as is by no means the uniform of the force, and was besides, unquestionably, smoking a cigar, which I am given to understand is not permitted by the regulations when on duty. I watched the glowing light for at least ten minutes, and when I went to bed again, I could not get to sleep for wondering who the amateur policeman could be.
But the house is a perfect jewel of its kind. _Such_ a pretty dining-room, _such_ a lovely drawing-room, opening into a conservatory, with a fountain and gold-fish, to say nothing of flowers (I am passionately fond of flowers), and _such_ a boudoir of my own, where nobody ever intrudes except my special favourites--Cousin John, for instance, when he is not in disgrace--and which I have fitted up and furnished quite to my own taste. There's the "Amazon" in gilt bronze, and a bas-relief from the Elgin marbles--not coloured like those flaxen-haired abominations at Sydenham, but pure and simple as the taste that created it; and an etching Landseer did for me himself of my little Scotch terrier growling; and a veritable original sketch of Horace Vernet--in which nothing is distinguishable save a phantom charger rearing straight up amongst clouds of smoke. Then I've put up a stand for my riding-whips, and a picture of my own thoroughbred favourite horse over the chimney-piece; altogether, Aunt Deborah describes the apartment exactly when she says to me, as she does about once a week, "My dear, if you were a _man_, I should say your room was fitted up in the most perfect taste; but as you happen to be a young lady, I won't say what I think, because I know you won't agree with me;" and I certainly do not agree with Aunt Deborah upon a great many subjects.