In a word, the poor dear girl was sore all over with mortification, and wherever one touched her, no matter with how gentle a finger, one hurt.
"I would have trusted that woman," she cried tragically, "with a gold-mine or a distillery." "We trusted her with something more valuable, my dear," said I."Our guileless faith in human nature.

Anyhow we'll keep the faith undamaged." She smiled.

"That's considerably less odious." Nothing more could be said.

We let the unfortunate subject rest in peace for ever after.
These two episodes, the death of poor Reggie Dacre and the Tufton catastrophe, are the only incidents in my diary that are worth recording here.

Christmas came and went and we entered on the new year of 1916.