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UNWRITTEN RULES OF SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS

All marketing and publishing rights guaranteed to and reserved by:

721 W. Abram Street

Arlington, TX 76013
(800) 489-0727
(817) 277-0727
(817) 277-2270 (fax)
E-mail: info@fhautism.com
www.fhautism.com

© 2016 Dr. Temple Grandin & Sean Barron

Cover & interior design by John Yacio III

All rights reserved.

Printed in the USA.
No part of this product may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission of Future Horizons, Inc., except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews or unless noted within the book.

ISBN: 9781941765388
 DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to individuals with autism

spectrum
disorders who strive each day to understand
themselves
and the world around them, and to the parents,
teachers
and providers who help them do so.

Temple Grandin

I would like to dedicate this book to Ron, Judy and

Megan
Barron: my wonderful father, mother and sister.
Sean Barron
 CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE: Two Perspectives on Social Thinking

My World is What I Do by Temple Grandin

A Different Perspective on Social Awareness by Sean Barron

PART TWO: Two Minds: Two Paths

How the Autistic Way of Thinking Affects Social Understanding

INTERLUDE

PART THREE: The Ten Unwritten Rules of Social Relationships

The Rules

Rule #1: Rules Are Not Absolute; They Are Situation-Based and
People-Based

Rule #2: Not Everything That Happens Is Equally Important in the

Grand Scheme of Things

Rule #3: Everyone in the World Makes Mistakes; It Doesn’t Have

to Ruin Your Day

Rule #4: Honesty Is Different Than Diplomacy

 Rule #5: Being Polite Is Appropriate in Any Situation

Rule #6: Not Everyone Who Is Nice to Me Is My Friend

Rule #7: People Act Differently in Public Than They Do in Private

Rule #8: Know When You’re Turning People Off

Rule #9: “Fitting In” Is Often Tied to Looking and Sounding Like
You Fit In

Rule #10: People Are Responsible for Their Own Behaviors

TEMPLE’S EPILOGUE

SEAN’S EPILOGUE

REFERENCES
 INTRODUCTION
SOCIAL RULES
Those guidelines, norms, requirements, expectations, customs, and laws,
Written and unwritten, spoken and unspoken,
That reflect a society’s attitudes, values, prejudices, and fears,
And determine the roles we play and the actions we take,
As we interact with other people in society as individuals and as groups.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO
FIRST AND SECOND EDITIONS

We wish to thank Veronica Zysk for her valuable guidance and hard
work in putting this project together. We also want to thank Wayne
Gilpin who, as president of Future Horizons Inc. when the first
edition was released, had the original idea for this book. We are
grateful for his vision and to be part of the FH family. Though Wayne
has now passed on from this life, we work to keep alive his vision of
helping people better understand autism and Asperger’s syndrome
and the challenges and triumphs of those with it. As Wayne was
frequently known to say, “keep smiling!”

A NOTE TO READERS

Three people contributed directly to the final book you are reading.
Individual passages written by Temple and Sean are identified with
their names throughout the chapters. We owe thanks to our editor,
Veronica Zysk, for the rest of the text, which she created on our
behalf with our input and direction. It was a true team effort.
We believe in the use of person-first language and have
incorporated that styling into the book. However, there are passages
where we found it cumbersome or redundant to use person-first
language, and the reader will notice the use of the term “autistic.”
We mean no disrespect.
We also chose to globally use the male gender reference, rather
than “he/she” or “him/her.” The word “teacher” refers to anyone who
works with or has an influence on people with ASD. It is not limited
to the formal education system, and professionals and parents alike
are all our teachers. Except where noted, the ideas presented in the
book apply equally to girls and boys.
Finally, the structure of the book dictated that there be a mixed
“voice” within the chapters. The two opening chapters are written in
first-person language, as we each authored our own chapters. The
remainder of the book represents a marriage of both our thoughts
and ideas; therefore, we chose to refer to ourselves in the third
person when necessary.

A FEW NOTES TO READERS ON THE SECOND

EDITION

The content and structure of this second edition remain largely the
same as the first edition, with two major exceptions:

1. Temple and Sean have added content that speaks to some

of the social perceptual changes they have experienced over
the last 12 years, since the first edition released in 2005.
The majority of this content can be found in its entirety
directly following the first edition content.

2. Some readers of the first edition found it challenging to

track whether Temple or Sean was speaking in parts of the
 book. As a result, the reader will now see a vertical ruler
running down the outside edge of the page. The ruler to
designate Temple’s content is gray; the ruler to designate
Sean’s content is black. We hope this visual tool makes it
easier to appreciate which author is speaking and when.

3. Some readers thought our editor should have omitted

content across the chapters if it was something we already
had said. We didn’t want this done for two reasons. First,
we never assume people read a book front to back. In fact,
many don’t. Second, some things bear repeating so people
of the spectrum, who process differently, actually “hear” and
understand things that are important to us.

W
hen our publisher, Wayne Gilpin, approached us about
writing a book together about the unwritten rules of social
relationships, we were both, simultaneously, interested and
filled with some degree of trepidation. “There is value,” he asserted,
“in sharing with the autism community the collective years of
wisdom of two successful, socially-adept individuals who struggled
with the effects of autism and rose above the challenges of the
disorder. You both have insight and experience in the complex arena
of social functioning and people want to know how you became the
social beings you are.”
On a logical, intellectual basis we both could agree with the
points Wayne was making. We did recognize the value of broadening
the understanding that neurotypical people have of people who are
on the autism spectrum, especially in reference to how we think and
how that affects our social relationships. We were both able to
reflect on the difficult lessons and experiences that contributed to
the social understanding we each possess of the world. And, a book
like this appealed to us because it is a way of giving back to the
world, leaving a legacy of our thoughts on a topic that is ever-
present in the minds of parents, teachers, caregivers and people
with ASD.
Little did we realize at the time we agreed to write this book
what a mirror image of our quest for social understanding it would
turn out to be.
While we understood the task at hand, translating ideas into
action proved difficult. The farther we journeyed into discussing the
content of the book, the more nebulous the theme became. We’d
discuss one unwritten rule and a hundred exceptions would
instantaneously appear. Anxiety and frustration grew as the project
became a giant metaphor for the path our social mastery took as we
grew from children to adolescents to the adults we are today. Social
rules and exposure to the social world is simple and well-defined at
first. As children we are taught “Don’t talk with your mouth full” or
“Raise your hand in class before speaking.” These were concrete
rules to follow; they defined what our behavior should be. And it was
relatively easy to know when we were—or were not—following
them. So too was the initial idea for the book: Talk about some of
the unwritten social rules you learned along the way. However, the
more immersed one becomes in social situations and social
understanding, the more intricate and interwoven are those rules,
the more nuanced the interpretation of what to do or say, and the
less clear-cut these “rules” become. We descended into that realm of
fuzzy boundaries and discovered more exceptions than rules the
more we talked about the book. As we marched forward, the light of
understanding and confidence in accomplishing the task before us
faded.
Luckily a guide appeared in the form of our editor, Veronica Zysk,
and we each were handed a flashlight to illuminate our path.
Countless conversations provided structure to our thoughts and
organization to the ideas we felt needed to be put forth within our
writings. It quickly became apparent that our original concept of the
book—discussing the myriad and sometimes mysterious unwritten
rules of social relationships—was a task so broad neither of us could
see a beginning or an ending to the project. It was a gigantic
exercise in executive functioning, and that is NOT one of the strong
points of most people on the autism spectrum. Giant icebergs of
anxiety and stress began to melt away as our wise editor broke
down the project into smaller, more manageable steps that made
sense to each of us.
Even more importantly, as we talked about how our social
awareness had unfolded over the years, our editor started pointing
out to us several common bubbles of thought rising to the surface of
our consciousness. Our brains started shifting from only seeing the
details into appreciating larger concepts. Smaller, specific unwritten
social rules started migrating under the umbrella of broader
categories that described social behavior. The pivotal nature of these
global unwritten rules was both interesting and enlightening to us;
they applied across situations and domains, at home, school and in
the community, across age groups and cultures. They eventually
coalesced into the Ten Unwritten Rules you will find in this book.
That people with ASDs think in details rather than generalizations
was nowhere more evident than in the process of writing this book.
Early on in the project, during some of our more frustrating
months, Sean succinctly summed up the difficulty we were having
with defining the unwritten rules of social relationships: “There is the
world of the neurotypicals and the world of the person on the autism
spectrum. Our perspective and understanding—indeed, our very
thinking process—is so very different than yours, yet we are required
to conform to your set of rules. For you, social understanding is
innate. For us, it is not. Asking me to define the unwritten social
rules that help or hinder us in forming relationships is like asking me
to write a book about the unwritten rules of the people of France.
I’m not French; I wasn’t born into that culture and I don’t know their
rules. The same logic applies here.”
Life has a way of completing itself, and by the end of the book
we came full circle in realizing that we each did, indeed, have a
much richer, fuller understanding of the unwritten rules of social
relationships than we did growing up, and we did have things to say
that could shed light on working with other people on the spectrum.
Perhaps our biggest discovery, however, was how markedly different
was the path we each took in gaining that social awareness.
There is no mistaking that we each traveled a different road to
social understanding, and that the view we each have today of the
world is colored by a different social perspective. Clearly, there is no
single path to social awareness, to being connected to the world; the
journey is as varied as are people on the spectrum. But knowledge,
to be valuable, needs context. Therefore, we decided to relate our
personal stories as a starting point for the book, not only to set the
stage for the comments we would make later about the Ten
Unwritten Rules, but also to illustrate the very different perspectives
we grew up with and the different ways our brains processed
information and our experiences.
Parents and teachers who are eager to teach “social skills” to
children with ASD may want to take note of our two social
perspectives as different starting points for instruction. They suggest
not only how children with ASD think and learn, but the basic
building materials they are born with that contribute to the quality
and character of their social awareness. For children born on Path A,
their sense of connection to the world, their happiness may always
stem from a logical, analytic place of being. They resonate less to
emotional-relatedness and more to intellectual pursuits. These are
the often-intellectually gifted children who can easily lose themselves
in projects and learning, oblivious to the world outside their
obsession, for whom facts and figures, problems and patterns are
the stuff that dreams are made of, the “little scientists” on the
spectrum. For these children, their sense of being and relatedness is
tied to what they do instead of to what they feel. They relate to, and
find friendships with, people who have the same shared interests.
Path B children, in contrast, feel emotional-relatedness right from
the start. They eagerly, although inappropriately at first, express
emotions, make their needs and wants known through emotional
channels, they “feel out” their world through their sense of social-
emotional connection and are deeply affected when they and their
world are out of sync with each other. Emotions infuse their being.
They are emotionally demonstrative. These are the children who
long for friends, peers with whom they can be emotionally
connected. For them, social connectedness is motivating in itself, yet
these children can’t figure out what to do about the emotional
undertow they have to fight just to keep their heads above water.
Temple had “classic autism” right from the start. She was
nonverbal until she was nearly four, with regular tantrums
manifesting because of her tactile and auditory sensory problems. If
left alone, her preferred activity was investigating carpet fibers or
watching grains of sand sift through her fingers, over and over and
over again. Her impairment was severe enough that
institutionalization was recommended, although her mother refused
to accept that future for her daughter. However, Temple was also
inquisitive, creative, and highly self-motivated to explore her
surroundings. It was a world of projects and building things, of
being a detective in figuring out how “life” worked. Her sense of self
was positive, strong, formed bit by bit by what she did, by the many
experiences her mother exposed her to, and the structure within
which she learned. Friendships were active, built on shared interests.
It wasn’t until her early teens that a sense of being out-of-sync with
her peers woke up in her brain. By then, a solid foundation of
positive self-esteem, strong self-motivation, creativity and flexible
thinking had been formed, a foundation that helped her withstand
the earthquakes of social misunderstandings that threatened to
demolish her world. Through it all, Temple defined herself by what
she did. As is now common knowledge, Temple “thinks in pictures”
and her mind processes information in a highly logical manner.
Temple is a visual-logical thinker. Today she is a university professor
and a world-renowned designer of livestock equipment, an
accomplished author and strong advocate on autism issues.
Contrast this with Sean’s journey, one colored from an early age
with a profound sense of isolation, of deeply rooted feelings of
anxiety and fear that manifested as extremely rigid thinking
patterns, highly repetitive behaviors and rules that absolutely could
not be broken. Sean was diagnosed as having autism in 1965, at age
four. Like Temple, he was not considered “high functioning” by
today’s diagnostic criteria, and like Temple, he had delayed language
and sensory challenges. He began saying numbers and letters when
he was three, but it wasn’t until he was well into his fourth year that
he started saying other words. His mother recalls his language was
more “reciting”—lists of state capitals, radio call letters—than
speaking in a form that was functional or conversational. He didn’t
make eye contact; he had a hard time filtering out extraneous
sounds as innocuous as a doorbell ringing, making it appear he was
ignoring his parents and adults in his environment, when in reality,
all sounds equally competed for his attention. He had a very high
pain threshold, but could not tolerate certain sensations, such as
sitting in a bathtub, having his head touched and his hair washed or
combed. Some of his sensory issues lasted to some degree well into
his twenties.
As you will read, Sean’s emotions controlled his behaviors. He
seemed as though he were living “within a world of his own
imagining,” within a fog of autism so dense that nothing existed
beyond the fog. He was a solitary boy, curious only about things he
already knew, but wanted to hear repeated. Order and calm lived
only within sameness. As a result, odd rules came to govern his daily
interactions. It was a horrible, frightening, out-of-control world;
whatever behaviors gave him even a minuscule degree of reprieve
became his lifeline to survival. Interestingly, he didn’t ask any
questions except those about time (“What time is she coming?”). He
never, never asked how to do something he couldn’t do on his own,
or something he didn’t understand. Some of these challenges
continued into his adult life; not asking for help was perhaps the
longest lasting of all.
Despite what looked like a disregard for parents and people
around him, Sean’s nature contained the seed of emotional-
relatedness that exists in different degrees within people on the
autism spectrum. Looking back now, we realize that his emotional-
relatedness capacity was high; missing from the equation, however,
was the ability to step outside his own mind, to think flexibly and
with what we refer to as theory of mind—the ability to perceive the
world from another person’s point of view. Every social misstep was
a blow to his fragile self-esteem; every misunderstanding a
testament that something was inherently wrong with him, that he
was “bad.” He was self-focused, not by choice but by his autism.
Managing the fear and anxiety associated with daily functioning was
often too much to bear. Angry explosions were frequent and only
dragged him down farther into his black hole of self-despair. Despite
all that, today Sean lives independently, is a well-established
newspaper reporter and has a wide variety of social relationships
and interests.
As we worked on the book, it became obvious how these two
very different social perspectives governed our thinking patterns and
our behaviors. Temple took a very analytic approach to life, and to
the book: research, discuss, evaluate, solve the “problem” and
achieve the goal. Her contribution reflects events and ideas that
describe how she gained social functioning skills, the logical,
methodical way her life has unfolded, and the new thoughts and
perspectives on social awareness that have surfaced as a result of
her experiences.
On the other hand, Sean’s life, and thus his writing, is emotion-
infused. The anxiety, fear, longing and pleasure he has experienced
as he’s worked his way out of his autism, then into and through the
nebulous world of social relationships, color every passage.
Our differences are both subtle and overt; they stem as much
from environment and upbringing as they do from our unique
physiologies. Brain researchers have discovered that autism
characteristics manifest when neuronal connections that link up the
many different parts of the brain fail to hook up. The frontal cortex is
the most affected area and the back part of the brain, where
memories are stored, is usually more normal. They have also found
that the brain areas that process emotional signals from the eyes are
abnormal. Variability in the parts of the brain that are not wired
properly would explain why behaviors and feelings can be so
different among people with ASD, and why Sean is Sean and Temple
is Temple. And, of course, basic temperament comes into play, as it
does with all people, whether or not they are on the spectrum.
Two very different paths, yet we both arrived at the same
destination: happy independent adults, with satisfying jobs and
personal relationships that provide us with a sense of connection
and belonging.
Autism is a spectrum disorder, and people with autism are a
diverse culture. As with any culture, we have social norms, unwritten
rules and a thought perspective all our own. That people with autism
have to exist within a different culture on a day-to-day basis in order
to survive—one that often blindly insists on conformity rather than
respecting our cultural diversity—makes functioning in the world
around us exceedingly difficult, often depressing and continually
anxiety-laden.
We offer this book in the hope that people of both cultures—
those with autism and neurotypicals alike—can gain a deeper
awareness of and appreciation for the other. To do that, we can
think of no better way than sharing with you how we think about
social relationships—this is how we each gain perspective of the
other. We could enumerate any number of unwritten social rules
offer hundreds of bulleted examples of social behaviors we had
learned in a neat and organized manner, but they would have little
lasting impression on neurotypical (NT) people until they first
understood what it’s like to be “in our heads,” to hear the
conversations we have with ourselves about the people and the
situations we experience. Successful social relationships require a
healthy ability to take another person’s perspective; in most cases,
it’s teaching the person with autism to take the NT perspective.
Within the pages of this book we sought to reverse that trend by
explaining our perspective on social relationships to the reader. It
was an eye-opening experience for each of us, and we share the
common bond of autism. Hopefully, it will be a bridge to new
understanding between both our cultures.
Despite millions of years of inhabiting this planet together, our
social awareness is still in its infancy and there are skills we all can
learn to help us coexist in respectful harmony. The more colors on
our palette, the more beautiful the world we can create. We each
have much to share.
If we are to achieve a richer culture, rich in contrasting values, we
must recognize the whole gamut of human potentialities, and so
weave a less arbitrary social fabric, one in which each diverse human
gift will find a fitting place. —Margaret Mead

Dr. Temple Grandin & Sean Barron

July 2005

SECOND EDITION UPDATE TO THE

INTRODUCTION

Since writing the first edition of our book, one observation we’ve
noticed bears acknowledgment. That is the marked overlap between
ASD and ADHD. In the last 10 years the way the medical and
educational community views autism and Asperger’s has changed
dramatically. At the time Temple and Sean were born, children who
were totally or mostly nonverbal, who were socially out of step with
their peers, and displayed marked behavioral challenges were given
a diagnosis of “autism.” It wasn’t until 1994 and the release of the
fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders (DSM-IV) that the professional community officially
embraced a “higher functioning” form of autism called “Asperger’s
syndome” (AS). AS described children who had language—often
quite good language—combined with less severe emotional, social
and behavioral challenges. Even so, disparity presided in how
children were diagnosed, depending on the knowledge and
experience level of the professional doing the assessment.
Compounding matters was that individuals who had normal or near-
normal language yet marked social and sensory impairments were
often not diagnosed until age seven or later, when their social
developmental challenges became more noticeable compared to
their neurotypical peers.
It was during this period that confusion between ASD and ADHD
started appearing in earnest. The overlap between symptoms of the
disorders challenged parents and professionals alike. Classic traits
associated with AS were being noticed in children previously
diagnosed with ADHD. Children previously diagnosed as ADHD were
being re-diagnosed as AS. Researchers took note and studies started
appearing about possible genetic links between the two disorders
(Lichtenstein, P. et. al. 2010; Reierson, A. 2008; Ronald, A. et al.
2008).
Then in 2013, the diagnostic landscape around autism/Asperger’s
changed again with the release of the DSM-V. Gone were the
individual diagnoses of autism, Asperger’s and PDD-NOS. They were
replaced with one disorder: Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), further
qualified by two domains of functioning (Social Communication, and
Restricted and Repetitive Patterns of Behavior Interests and
Activities) and three levels of severity for each domain.
More recent research is confirming a genetic influence in the
overlap of symptoms between ASD and ADHD with no speech delay
(Antshel et.al., 2016; Grzadzinski, Dick, Lord, & Bishop, 2016;
Grzadzinsky et.al., 2011; Reiersen, A., 2011). Parents and
professionals are noting the social functioning and sensory
components of the disorders to require the most attention within
treatment programs, as these areas seem to be the most challenging
for these individuals. Therefore, we encourage adults involved with
either an ASD or ADHD diagnosis to read the information provided in
this book in an effort to more completely understand the differences
in the way our brains work in processing the social and emotional
situations we are faced with every day.
 PART ONE

TWO PERSPECTIVES ON SOCIAL

THINKING
 MY WORLD IS WHAT I DO
by TEMPLE GRANDIN

W
hen I was a child I was a big fan of Superman and The
Lone Ranger. These television shows had clear-cut
values of right and wrong. Good guys fought bad guys
and good guys won. I understood the messages conveyed in the
shows because of their clear values. To learn right and wrong I
had to experience concrete examples of right and wrong: You do
not hit other kids because you would not like it if they hit you. I
understood the rule that “two wrongs do not make a right.” An
example would be breaking another child’s toy because he broke
mine.
Roy Rogers’ code of conduct was another set of rules to which
I could relate. The Roy Rogers Show was a popular children’s
cowboy series. Roy’s rules for the western range were also the
rules of the ’50s, when I was a child.

Roy Rogers’ Riders Club Rules:

Be neat and clean.
Be courteous and polite.
Always obey your parents.
Protect the weak and help them.
Be brave but never take chances.
Study hard and learn all you can.
Be kind to animals and take care of them.
Eat all your food and never waste any.
Love God and go to Sunday school regularly.
Always respect our flag and our country.
 The 1950s was a time when our society was much simpler,
more structured, and a time when following the rules of our
culture was more a time-honored tradition than it is today. So
many times after giving presentations to parents and professionals
in the autism community, I am asked, “Temple, how did you get to
be the person you are today? What things occurred along the way
that gave you the opportunities to be successful in a job, to have
friends, to function so well in the world around you?” Of course,
there’s never a simple answer to those questions, as the person I
am today is different from the person I was forty years ago, ten
years ago, or even five years ago. It’s not as though I gained
social understanding at a certain chronological age, like a light
switch suddenly flipped over to the ON position. If these same
parents had met me just out of high school, they might have
walked away with a different impression. I’m nearing sixty now;
that’s a lot of years of experiences to learn from, and certainly
can’t be compared to a child of five or ten who is an infant in his
social understanding of the world.
However, in gathering material for this book, and comparing
the social understanding I have now with what it used to be at
different stages of my life, I can say that certain elements
contributed to my success:

Growing up in the 1950s and ’60s

A structured home life
Creativity and an inquisitive nature
High expectations of parents and teachers
Clearly defined behavior rules and consistently applied
consequences
Positive self-esteem and strong internal motivation

Some of these components are internal; others were external.

Some may be applicable to other children and adults on the
spectrum; others may be just “me” and the personality traits I was
born with.
 GROWING UP IN THE 1950S AND ’60S

Looking back, I’d have to say that I’m a product of my

environment. The social structure of the 1950s and ’60s was much
simpler than it is today. Family units were strong, people exhibited
a higher degree of respect toward each other than they do today,
and behavior expectations were more clearly defined. Children
were taught manners, consideration for others and to do good
deeds in the community.
Despite some rather severe behavior problems in my young
years, as I’ve described in my books, Emergence: Labeled Autistic
and later in Thinking in Pictures, or those that Mother has
illuminated in her book, A Thorn in My Pocket, Mother never
viewed my autism as excusing me from the expectation that I
would learn to function within the social structure. Even at age six,
I was expected to eat dinner with the family, to behave properly,
and to respect the family rules, such as never messing up the
living room. Being polite, saying “please” and “thank you” were
expected of all children at that time, and most certainly of children
in the Grandin household. It was simply assumed, without
question, that I would learn these social skills.
Mother was strict in her discipline, and applied it consistently.
She knew me well, she was a good behavior detective, and I
probably inherited some of my acute analytic skills from her, which
have helped me throughout my life. She understood the difference
between behavior outbursts that resulted from me being tired, or
from sensory overload (in those instances there wasn’t a
consequence) and times when I wasn’t trying or was simply “being
Temple.” I was often a willful child; autism didn’t compromise the
very neurotypical way I tested boundaries to see how much I
could get away with.
One of the reasons she worked so hard on my behavior is she
wanted to prove to my father and our doctor that I didn’t have to
be in an institution. Remember, this is the 1950s and ’60s, when
knowledge of autism was young and Bruno Bettelheim’s theory
that autism was caused by uncaring and unresponsive mothers
was looming like a black cloud over everything. In her heart, she
knew I was capable of learning, as long as the learning was done
in a way that was meaningful to me. She worked hard to keep me
out of an institution, and it often wasn’t easy.
The environment I grew up in was also a natural setting for
social interaction and for friendships to form. Absent were hours of
solitary activities such as watching television and DVD movies, or
playing computer and video games, and this was actually a very
positive thing for a developing autistic child. Time was spent
making things, building projects like kites or model airplanes, in
lots of outdoor activities, and in playing board games or cards.
These activities taught me turn-taking. When I was five, I was
making things in my room out of cardboard already. These types
of activities were naturally reinforcing, they were self-esteem
building, and they provided opportunities for practicing all sorts of
skills, from language to sensory regulation to behavior control.
While some activities I did by myself, in most cases my days
were filled with shared activities, either with my sisters, the nanny,
or with other kids—a perfect setting for emerging social skills. My
favorite game was table hockey; it required me to learn to play it
with another child. And, because Mother drilled into me manners
and social etiquette, I developed good play skills at a very early
age, like turn-taking and being fair and doing what others wanted
to do.
At times I’d get off on one of my jags and just keep talking
about something over and over again that the kids didn’t really
like, one of my fixations. For instance, one of the neighbors had a
fake donkey where you’d push the ear down, the tail would go up
and a cigarette would emerge from the donkey’s butt. In the ’50s,
this was akin to a dirty joke. I thought that donkey was the
funniest thing I had ever seen and I wanted to talk about it and
talk about it and talk about it. The kids eventually got sick of
hearing me go on and on, but what was good was that they just
told me to stop. Plain and simple: “Cut it out; we’re sick of hearing
you talk about the stupid donkey.” That definitely helped. People
were pretty direct back then; the kids were direct and the adults
were direct if you were doing something inappropriate. There
wasn’t a whole lot of explaining and trying to be sensitive about
feelings. I was told, in very clear language, that my behavior was
wrong and if it was Mother doling out the message, there was a
loss of privileges for sure. The quality of the interaction was much
more up front.
It was also an era where families had a lot of social contact
with other families. My class in elementary school had only twelve
kids. We all played with each other—it just was the way things
were during the ’50s and ’60s. Everyone got invited to everyone
else’s birthday parties—there was no exclusion. We played after
school with each other. One of our neighbors had a really cool
erector set, another had a pool table—these were activities I
enjoyed and I’d often be over there playing with the kids in those
families. Socializing was an everyday occurrence and having
appropriate social skills was expected. If I acted inappropriately at
a neighbor’s house, the mom would simply correct my behavior—
no big deal—just like my mother did. This is right; this is not right.
All the mothers taught kids the same manners and held their kids
accountable for their behaviors. It was a much tighter-knit society
than it is today.

2017 REFLECTIONS FROM TEMPLE

Many Older People are Great Resources in the

Community

There are many people in the community who can be very

successful in working with kids, teenagers or young adults
with ASD. They do not let a diagnosis scare them away from
mentoring and teaching individuals with autism. A 2014
article by Eric B. London, entitled “Categorical Diagnosis: A
Fatal Flaw in Autism Research?” states that there is no clear
boundary between autism and neurotypicality. “ASDs
represent the extreme end of a distribution of traits in the
population, placing doubt on the validity of autism as a
discrete entity.” Children on the spectrum have to learn all
social rules by being taught. In my generation, social rules
were taught to all children in a more structured way. This
helped kids who were mildly on the spectrum to get through
school and gain employment later in life. I have talked to
many parents and grandparents who have discovered that
they were on the spectrum after their children or
grandchildren were diagnosed.
Sometimes a teacher can work wonders with students
who are labeled as having ASD. An old nun in a wheelchair
was able to handle the worst kid in the school who was
labeled with both ASD and oppositional defiant disorder. She
put him to work as her assistant. He was proud to be her
assistant, and he behaved himself.
Many retired people with technical or artistic skills would
be willing to teach their trade to students with ASD; someone
has to approach them about the idea to do it. This could be
done by networking through social media, faith-based groups
or community associations. I estimate that a skilled trade
would be appropriate for 25% to 30% of individuals with
ASD.
There is a huge shortage of skilled trade workers in the
U.S., especially in auto mechanics and welding. To get kids
interested in a career, it is best to expose them to it before
graduation from high school. I became interested in beef
cattle because I was exposed to them in high school. The 4-H
program also offers some great resources for learning about
small engine repair. It is likely that there are bored retired
mechanics in your community who would love to teach about
small engine repair. Broken lawn mowers are free, and a
garage could be converted into a neighborhood shop. Fixing
broken phones and appliances is another area where a
 retired technician could get kids away from video games and
headed toward a well-paying job.

I also wasn’t a shy kid, and I think that helped me along in

acquiring social skills and feeling positive about my life in general.
I remember one time as a child going on a trip to Canada with the
family. I wanted to go on a toboggan ride, so I just went up to
other kids and asked them if I could go on their toboggan. My
sister was always too shy to do that. When new neighbors moved
into town I would go over and introduce myself to them. I wasn’t
shy about putting myself in social situations, or anxious about
making mistakes, probably because there were so many, many
chances to do this that I got all the practice I needed. That,
coupled with Mother’s insistence on manners, was a recipe for
being successful.
I loved building things right from the start; it was a natural
outlet for my visual way of thinking. I wasn’t interested in “little
girl” activities like playing with dolls (hated them, hated them). I
wanted to go out and build tree houses, and construct things that
flew, like planes and kites. I had really neat parachutes that I
made out of scarves and coat hangers. I had a special design so
that when I threw them up in the air they wouldn’t tangle and
they’d open up really nicely and sail a long way.
Mother had my brother Dick when I was about six. While she
was in the hospital, I made them a welcome home surprise. I cut
a horse out of cardboard, put it on a string and glued a bunch of
crepe paper on it. When she came in with the new baby, I lowered
the horse down over the banister and all the crepe paper unrolled
into big loops. That was my mind at six years old. Another time,
Mother was having a dinner party downstairs, directly beneath my
room. I took one of my dresses and put it on a coat hanger and
then put a paper bag on it as a head and painted some eyes on it.
I put it on a string, then lowered it out the window. All the guests
screamed as though someone had fallen out the window. It was
pretty funny.
Another random document with
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picture of frigid resolution as she placed her umbrella in the stand,
and with some trivial remark about the lateness of the hour walked
straight upstairs to her own room, where she remained all the
evening, pleading a bad headache as an excuse from dinner. Nor
was her husband a more hopeful subject; declining all his cousin’s
entreaties and persuasions to remain, at any rate, till the last train,
he took his departure forthwith, Helen promising him, as she
followed him to the door, that they would all come and see him off
the following Thursday. Her inquiries and hints were in vain; no
particulars of the walk to the pier were vouchsafed to satisfy the
cravings of her curiosity. “We are just where we were before we ever
met—we are strangers,” was the only intelligence gleaned from her
cousin as he selected a cigar, buttoned up his top-coat, and bade
her good-night.
 CHAPTER IX.
THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM.

The day of embarkation arrived only too speedily. It was a

persistently pouring wet morning, rain descending in torrents. It
cleared a little towards the afternoon, and the Mayhews,
accompanied by Alice, started in a close carriage for Portsmouth
Dockyard. They had insisted on her accompanying them, saying
that, if she did not, it would give rise to a great deal of unpleasant
discussion among their friends, several of whom lived at Southsea.
“It is only fair to Reginald,” urged Helen. “He has not had time to
clear himself yet, and at any rate before the world you will have to
keep up appearances. How you can allow him to go—how you can
doubt him, I cannot imagine. You will be exceedingly sorry for
yourself some day,” she added in a lower voice, accompanied by a
look of keen-edged meaning quite lost upon Alice, who was staring
vacantly out of the window.
They soon arrived at The Hard, Portsea, and descried the huge
white Alligator lying alongside. The most frightful confusion prevailed
on all sides, and the noise and din and pushing and shoving were
beyond description. Baggage bewailed as lost; baggage going on
board; soldiers’ wives, who were being left behind, in loud
lamentation; friends who came to see people off, rather cheery and
important than otherwise; friends who were really sorry, and on the
verge of tears; dogs being smuggled on board; dogs being turned
out; wherever you looked there was bustle and confusion! The
Mayhew party gingerly ascended the long and slippery gangway,
and asked for Sir Reginald Fairfax.
“Yes, he was below, God bless him!” said an Irishwoman, who was
wiping her eyes with the tail of her dress. “It’s many a sore heart he
has lightened this day.”
 “How so?” inquired Mrs. Mayhew graciously.
“Hasn’t he given ten pounds to every woman that’s not on the
strength, and is left behind, meeself among them—and me wid three
childer? May the heavens be his bed! may he never know sickness
or grief! May he never know what it is to have as sore a heart as
mine is this day! May the Holy Virgin protect him!”
It was in vain they tried to stem this torrent of blessings; the
woman would not let them out of her sight.
Addressing herself specially to Alice, she said:
“Maybe you’re his sweetheart, or his sister, alannah! His
sweetheart, I’m sure?” she urged insinuatingly.
“No, neither,” replied Alice, blushing furiously, and making a wild
and at last effectual effort to reach the top of the saloon stairs,
leaving the Irishwoman still pouring benedictions on her husband’s
head.
The long saloon was full of artillery, cavalry, and infantry officers
and their friends, but Reginald was not there after all; so, under the
escort of a polite naval officer, they again went on deck, where they
found him in the fore part of the ship, giving orders to a smart saucy-
looking sergeant, with his cap on three hairs, who was receiving his
directions with many a “Yes, sir; very well, sir.”
Sir Reginald was now junior major in the Seventeenth Hussars,
and uncommonly well he looked in his new uniform. He received
Mark and Helen warmly, Alice politely, and as though she were some
young lady friend of Helen’s, and nothing more. He offered to show
them over the ship, now they were there, and took them between
decks, pointed at the soldiers’ quarters, the live stock, the engines,
etc. Alice, under convoy of the naval officer, walked behind her
husband and the Mayhews, but her mind was in far too great a
ferment to notice or admire the order, discipline, spotlessness of the
magnificent trooper.
She answered her exceedingly smart escort utterly at random as
she mechanically picked her steps along the wet decks, the said
young sailor thinking her the prettiest girl he had seen for many a
day, and that her feet and ankles were the most unexceptionable he
had ever come across. He made a mental note to find out who she
was and all about her.
As they passed a group of weeping women, he remarked: “They
may well cry, poor creatures, for many a fine fellow will sail to-day
that will never see his native land again.”
“Oh, please don’t say that,” said Alice, her eyes filling with tears.
“Why not? Are you very much interested in anyone on board?” he
asked with a smile meant to be tender and captivating.
“My husband,” she faltered.
“Your husband!” he cried thunderstruck. “Are you married—you
look so awfully young? Is that your husband—that young hussar
fellow ahead with your friends?”
Alice, whose tears were now quietly coursing down her cheeks,
turned and leant over the side in silence.
“Is he?” he repeated.
She nodded impatiently, still further averting her face.
“Oh, but a strong-looking fellow like that is sure to come back all
right,” said he, offering her the first piece of clumsy comfort that
came into his head, and much distressed at the flow of tears that
kept drip, drip, dripping into the sea.
“By Jove!” he thought, “what an odd couple they are! They have
never spoken to each other yet, for all this grief.”
Meanwhile the Mayhews and Reginald had turned and come back
towards them, and were much edified to find Alice leaning over the
side, apparently studying the sea, and a young sailor seemingly
whispering soft nothings into her ear. This was a phase of her
character that burst upon them for the first time. She remained quite
motionless till they had passed, then dried her eyes and followed
them below. They went down to the main deck and saw Reginald’s
cabin, which he shared with another officer. Some loving hands had
done up the stranger’s side with many a little comfort—a thick quilted
crimson counterpane, pockets for boots, and combs, and brushes
against the wall, and the netting over his berth crammed with new
novels. All these caught Alice’s eye, and she felt a sharp twinge as
she turned and saw her husband’s share of the cabin bare of
everything save such luxuries as the ship provided.
“You are all going to stay and dine with me,” he said, “at the
ghastly hour of half-past four, but it will take the place of five-o’clock
tea for once. And if you like to make a toilette,” addressing himself to
Helen, “here are brushes and combs at your service, and I’ll take
care that the other fellow does not intrude.”
“But won’t it seem very odd if we stay?” asked Helen, dying to do
so.
“Not at all. About twenty ladies are dining besides yourselves; so
look sharp, the first bugle has gone.”
He treated Alice as an utter stranger; and Alice, now that he was
really and truly going, began to realise what she was losing. Regret,
remorse, and love were getting the better of pride, obstinacy, and
suspicion. Miss Fane’s influence was gradually wearing away in
Helen Mayhew’s society. She choked back the blinding tears that
would come into her eyes, and bit her quivering lips, so that Helen
might not see her tardy sorrow. Helen was calmly titivating herself at
the glass, and did not observe her companion’s emotion.
“Come, Alice, be quick!” she exclaimed at last. “Take off your
jacket, child; your serge will do very nicely. Here, wash your face and
brush your hair; you look quite wild and dishevelled.”
Alice mechanically rose to obey her. “What a dandy Reginald is,”
she proceeded. “I had no idea he was such a fine gentleman: ivory-
backed brushes with monograms, and all his toilet accessories to
correspond—boot-hook, button-hook, shoe-horn, all complete. Let’s
see what his dressing-case is like inside.”
“Oh don’t,” cried Alice piteously; “he hates to have his things
rummaged, I know he does.”
“What nonsense, my dear girl,” opening the case. “Here, have
some white rose—hold out your handkerchief.”
 “No, thank you, I would rather not.”
“Ridiculous goose, afraid to have it because it is your husband’s!
Listen to me, Alice,” she said more gravely, putting her hand on
Alice’s shoulder; “he is your husband as sure as Mark is mine. Say
something to him before he goes. Promise me that you will. There!
there’s the dinner-bugle. Now mind,” opening the cabin-door hastily
and speaking to Alice over her shoulder, “it will be your last chance.”
They found Reginald waiting at the foot of the stairs to escort them
to dinner, where he sat between them at the captain’s table. Quite a
number of ladies were present, but not one to compare with Alice in
appearance. Many an admiring eye was turned again and again to
the lovely slight girl sitting next Fairfax. A lisping sub, who was at the
opposite table, after gazing at her for nearly five minutes, gave
utterance to the universal query, “Who is she?”
“I say, who the deuce is that pretty girl sitting next Fairfax? She is
uncommon good-looking.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure,” returned his neighbour; “his sister most
likely. She is downright lovely. Such a nose and chin, and sweet
kissable little mouth!”
“You had better not let Fairfax hear you, my dear boy. Maybe she’s
his wife.”
“Wife! That girl! You can just step upstairs and tell that to the
marines.”
“I would give a trifle to know who she is,” remarked a third, upon
whom a brandy-and-soda had had a most reviving effect.
“I can tell you,” said Alice’s acquaintance, the naval officer, who
had just come down and seated himself at the end of the table; “she
is the wife of that young fellow next her.”
“What nonsense! He is not married.”
“Oh yes, he is,” observed a hitherto silent youth, who had been
devoting himself ardently to his dinner, and who now plunged into
the discussion pending the arrival of the second course. “He is
married, but he and his wife have had no end of a shindy, I hear;
that’s the reason he is going abroad. Just look at them now, as grave
and as glum as if they were at a funeral.”
“What a pity it is that marriage is so often the grave of love,”
remarked a cynical little artilleryman, putting up his eyeglass and
staring across at the other table. “They are an uncommonly good-
looking couple, anyway. The fellow reminds me of Millais’ ‘Black
Brunswicker,’ only he is darker.”
So saying, he languidly dropped his glass and resumed his dinner.
The moment of parting came, and the general feeling was that the
sooner it was over the better.
Putting on their hats and jackets, Alice and Helen hastened on
deck; Alice’s heart thumping, her knees trembling, and her face as
pale as death. Here they were joined by Mr. Mayhew and Reginald,
who were having a few last words.
“Come along, Helen,” said Mark, taking her arm and leading her
down the gangway, good-naturedly intending to give the other couple
a moment to themselves; but if it had been to save Alice’s life she
could not have uttered a syllable. She intended to have said
something—what, she scarcely knew—but her dry lips could not
frame a sound, and they reached the carriage in dead silence.
“Good-bye, Mark! Good-bye, Helen! Good-bye, Alice!” said her
husband hurriedly.
Alice turned on him a wistful glance, but a cold farewell was all she
read in his stern dark eyes. In another second he was clanking up
the gangway, a vision of a dark-blue uniform, a close-cropped brown
head, and he was gone; and Alice leant back in her corner of the
carriage, and gave way to a passion of weeping no longer to be
restrained.
 CHAPTER X.
GEOFFREY SPEAKS HIS MIND.

Alice remained at the Mayhews’ for ten days, previous to going to

Monkswood. She was very quiet and subdued in public, but in
private her feelings were not so well under control. If the walls of her
room could have spoken, the good folks downstairs would have
been amazed at some of their revelations. They could have told how
Alice flung herself on her bed the night the Alligator sailed, and wept
the bitterest tears she ever shed.
“If he is innocent,” she said, “he will never, never forgive me. What
have I done? I have had the happiness of my life in my own keeping,
and thrown it away with both hands.”
Leaving Alice stretched on her bed, perfectly worn out and
exhausted with crying, her face buried in the pillows to stifle her
sobs, let us follow the Alligator and see how her husband is getting
on.
They have rounded Finisterre, and are having, if anything, rather
worse than the usual Bay weather. Tremendous Atlantic rollers are
tossing the Alligator about as if she were a huge toy. Now she yaws
over, down, down, down to this side, now she slowly rights herself
from an angle of at least 40°, and goes over to that. They are having
a very bad time of it no doubt, for it has now commenced to blow, not
half but a whole gale. All but those whose duty it is to remain on
deck have gone below—all but one tall figure in a military great-coat,
who is standing under the bridge, and keeping his equilibrium as
best he can, considering that he is a soldier.
He seems perfectly insensible to the lurching ship, the torrents of
water sweeping the decks, the whistling of the wind through the
rigging, and the weather-beaten sailors’ anxious faces. Seems so
only; in his heart he is saying:
 “If this goes on she will founder. It will be a terrible thing for all
these poor fellows and their friends at home, but a rare piece of good
luck for me.”
However, the Alligator did not go to the bottom, thanks to
Providence, rare seamanship, and her own sea-going qualities—but
that she never was out in anything that tried the latter so thoroughly
was admitted by the oldest salt on board.

Geoffrey escorted Alice down to Monkswood about a fortnight

after her husband had sailed. The carriage they occupied was
empty; for the first part of the journey they had it all to themselves.
Geoffrey thought this an excellent opportunity for giving Alice what
he called “a little bit of his mind,” so, having arranged himself and his
rug to his complete satisfaction, in the seat facing hers, and sticking
his eyeglass firmly in his eye, he commenced:
“You are a nice young woman, I must say. I have the worst, the
very worst possible opinion of you.”
“You can’t think how grieved I am to hear you say so,” said Alice,
looking up from Punch with a complacent smile.
“It’s no smiling matter,” he replied angrily, “you heartless, obstinate
little—little—I don’t know what to call you.”
“Don’t hesitate to relieve your mind; you have generally a fine
command of language. Pray don’t let my feelings stand in your way.”
“Well—vixen, then—a little vixen!—allowing your husband”—with
much emphasis on the word—“to go out of the country in this way:
the very best, the nicest fellow in the whole world. His little finger is
worth ten of you. Letting him go when a word would have stopped
him. The idea of a chit like you”—with scathing contempt—“having it
in her power to control a fellow’s movements! Now you have sent
him to that white man’s grave-yard—India—I hope you are
satisfied?”
 “There was no occasion for him to go.”
“Every occasion, once you had taken it into your head to leave
him. You could not both live at home, and apart, without no end of a
scandal—a young couple barely out of their honeymoon. Even now
there are whispers, I can tell you; but, as everyone knows Rex to be
a red-hot soldier, the row that they say is going to come off out there
will be sufficient excuse to most; few will guess the real reason of his
leaving England—an obstinate, credulous, heartless wife.”
“Really, Geoffrey, you have the most astounding assurance! What
next, pray?”
“One great comfort to me is,” proceeded Geoffrey, removing his
glass and leaning back with folded hands, “that when this
tremendous lie is found out, and squashed, everyone will be down
on you like a thousand tons of bricks. I am quite looking forward to it,
I can tell you,” rubbing his hands. “Thank goodness you are not my
wife, that’s all.”
“To be your wife!” she exclaimed contemptuously, “what an alluring
idea! Why not suggest Norman at once?”
Geoffrey’s youth was his tender point.
“I am glad you are not my wife,” continued Geoffrey, perfectly
unruffled by her interruption. “I remember you as a small child, a
horrid, cross, cantankerous little monkey, flying into awful tantrums
and rages for nothing at all. You bit me once, I recollect, my young
lady.”
“I’m sure I never did,” cried Alice indignantly.
“Pardon me; I have every reason to remember it. Your teeth were
as sharp then as your tongue is now. You asked my pardon, and
said you were very sorry, and all that, and I forgave you. Query, will
Reginald forgive you for the nice trick you have served him? What
possessed him to marry you is a riddle I have given up long ago.
However, if anyone can break you in to trot nicely and quietly in
double harness, Reginald is the man. He stands no nonsense, as I
daresay you know by this time, madam.”
 “Have you done, Geoffrey?”
“Not quite yet. Supposing he is killed out there, or is carried off by
fever or cholera, how will you feel? The chances are fifty to one
against his ever coming home. If he does not, his death will lie at
your door as surely as if you had murdered him.”
Now Alice, whatever fear she had of Helen, had no awe of
Geoffrey, and whatever she might suffer from self-reproach, had no
idea of being taken to task in this way by him.
“One would think, to hear you talk, Geoffrey, that you were the
injured party. Pray what business is it of yours, my kind and
complimentary cousin? If you could contrive to mind your own affairs
and leave me to manage mine I should feel obliged,” said Alice with
much dignity, taking up Punch once more from her lap and casting a
look of indignant defiance over the top of its pages at her
irrepressible cousin.
“By rights you ought to be at school; you are barely eighteen—far
too young to know your own mind; not that you have much mind to
know,” he added, crossing his legs and gazing at her
dispassionately.
“Much or little, it is made up on one subject most thoroughly,”
returned Alice with an angry spot on either cheek. “If you do not
cease these civilities and leave me in peace, Geoffrey, I shall get out
at the next station, and travel in another carriage.”
“Here you are then!” he returned unabashed, as the slackening
pace and large sheds full of rolling stock and network of lines
betokened their arrival at a junction.
“This will do,” said a high treble voice, and the carriage-door
opened and displayed two very fashionable-looking ladies, a maid, a
poodle, various monstrous wicker travelling cases, a varied
assortment of small parcels, dressing-cases, umbrellas, and other
light odds and ends. The party were under the charge of a stout, red-
faced, irascible-looking old gentleman, who seemed by no means
equal to the occasion, and was soon to be seen coursing up and
down the platform, inveighing at porters, accosting guards, and
altogether in a state of excitement bordering on delirium.
The two ladies, the poodle (smuggled), and many of the smaller
packages found places in the carriage with Alice and Geoffrey; and
after a time were joined by the old gentleman, frightfully out of breath
and out of temper.
The presence of outsiders put an end to hostilities between our
young friends, and their discussion was postponed to a more
appropriate occasion. Alice even vouchsafed to accept a fresh foot-
warmer and a cup of tea from Geoffrey’s hands in token of a truce.
Although the month was March, it was still bitterly cold, and Alice
shivered as they sped along through fields still brown, past curious
old hamlets and farm-houses, with red high-pitched roofs or quaint
black and white timbered walls; past dumpy little high-shouldered-
looking village churches; past gray manorial halls peeping through
their still bare leafless woods; past flaming scarlet modern erections
in the all-prevailing Queen Anne style; past scattering cattle and
galloping long-tailed colts, at thundering express speed.
Alice saw but little of the landscape; her eyes were dim with
unshed tears, that nearly blinded her.
Was ever any girl so miserably unfortunate, so wretchedly
unhappy as herself? She had had to abide by principle and duty—to
hold aloof from her husband till he could clear himself. But where
was Reginald now? What was he doing? Could he but guess the
awful blank he had made in her life? Supposing that Geoffrey’s
prediction came true! she thought, with a sudden contraction of her
heart. What would she not give for one moment’s glimpse of him
now? Query, would she have been happier had her wish been
gratified? The picture would unfold a hazy languid afternoon, the
Alligator steaming down the glassy Red Sea twelve knots an hour;
the passengers enjoying a practical experience of the dolce far
niente—some dozing in cane chairs or on the benches, their caps
pulled over their eyes, gracefully nodding and coquetting with the
fickle goddess Sleep; some playing deck-quoits; some
endeavouring, spite of drowsiness, to interest themselves in a
yellow-backed novel; some playing draughts; some smoking; some
one or two, “though lost to sight to memory dear,” beneath a shady
umbrella, in company with a lot of flounces and neat little steel-
buckled high-heeled shoes.
Down in the saloon, half-a-dozen kindred spirits are drinking the
cup that cheers etc., dispensed by the pretty little hands of a pretty
little woman, the wife of a colonel returning from a six months’
European tour, charged with quantities of nice new dresses and a
freshly-whetted appetite and zest for flirtation. She has helped to “get
up” theatricals on board, and played her part to admiration; she sings
delightfully piquante French songs to an audience of enthralled
fellow-passengers; she tells amusing little stories about the other
ladies in her cabin to her ravished listeners; she treats everything as
a joke—even Sir Reginald Fairfax amuses her. He avoids all the
ladies, never speaks to them, and keeps aloof from the fair sex in a
manner that stimulates her vanity and her curiosity alike. However,
she has overcome circumstances, and by a propitiously-dropped
book made his acquaintance, and finds that “he is altogether
charming, and every bit as nice as he looks.” This she explains to
the lady at the next washing-stand, as she dresses elaborately for
dinner.
Sir Reginald is compelled to come to five o’clock tea—there is no
escape for him—and he submits to circumstances with as good a
grace as he can muster.
Behold the picture Alice would have seen, had second sight been
vouchsafed to her: Pretty, very pretty Mrs. Wynyard, in a dressy pink
cotton, pouring out tea at the end of one of the saloon tables for the
benefit of two ladies and five gentlemen, who are all in the highest
possible spirits, and discussing the lottery that they are getting up on
passing Perim. Her husband is the object of Mrs. Wynyard’s most
marked civilities; he has been deputed to cut the cake, and is
fulfilling the task with wonderful skill and alacrity, and is laughing and
talking with as much animation as anyone else. For the moment he
has cast care behind him and closed his eyes to the past; and,
indeed, care is but a sorry associate for a young man of five-and-
twenty.
 To leave the tea-party on board the Alligator, and return to Alice in
the railway carriage, does not take us more than a second. Whilst
her face is steadfastly turned away from the new arrivals, they have
been regarding her with a long exhaustive stare.
“Who are these young people?” they ask themselves with the
intolerance of people in their own county. “The girl is well dressed,
and might be good-looking if she had more colour and not those dark
rings round her eyes,” was their mental verdict. These ladies
themselves, attired in fashion’s latest hint of fashion, by no means
disdained to bring art (and a good deal of art) to the aid of nature.
One of them was not merely rouged, she was raddled; and over
her head fully forty summers had flown. Nevertheless, her sight was
still eagle-keen, and on the strap of a dressing-case she deciphered
a card and the name “Fairfax.” Electrical effect! Yes, “Fairfax” as
plain as a pikestaff. Was this girl the young bride, the beauty, that
there had been so much talk about? She must be.
And the youth. Was he her husband? That boy! Preposterous! If
not her husband, who was he, and where was Sir Reginald Fairfax?
You may rest assured that she did not keep her discovery or her
surmises to herself; and no sooner had Alice and Geoffrey left the
train than she took her companions into her confidence, and pointed
out with emphasis the open carriage and imposing-looking pair of
bays that were visible above the palings outside the station, and into
which Lady Fairfax and her companion had just stepped and driven
off.
Why did the bride come thus, alone? Where was her husband?
Who was her escort?
The rosy-cheeked lady lived within an easy distance of Manister,
and she set the ball of rumour and conjecture rolling along so gaily
and so speedily, that all the matrons within miles of Monkswood
soon regarded Alice with feelings bordering on ferocity. In the first
place, she had carried off the best parti in the county. This was bad
enough; but to be separated from him within three months of their
marriage, and to arrive on their hands as a very bad little black
sheep, was surely beyond endurance. She had nothing to expect
from their charity or generosity.
 CHAPTER XI.
“EASTWARD HO!”

The Alligator put in at Malta for twenty-four hours, and all the
passengers landed and “did” the sights. Reginald, in company with
some fellow-sightseers, visited the cathedral, the fried monks, and
other noteworthy objects, and, sentimental as it sounds, he strolled
past the house where he had first met Alice.
“Who would have thought,” he said to himself, “that that simple,
unsophisticated girl would have turned out so hard and unyielding?
She had given him a bitter lesson; he had done with her and all
womankind, that was certain;” but before he reached Port Saïd his
heart was considerably softened.
The handsome young second lieutenant and he were constantly
thrown together, and had become capital friends. They were partners
at whist, and frequently played in the same game at deck-quoits.
One evening they were standing in the stern, watching a large
steamer passing in the distance, homeward bound, when the
lieutenant abruptly broached the delicate subject of matrimony.
“No one would think,” he said, critically surveying his companion,
“that you were a married man.”
“Then you are not as clever as a friend of mine, who declares that
he recognises a Benedict at once by the cut of his boots, and could
swear to his umbrella,” said Sir Reginald.
“You haven’t a married look about you,” resumed the sailor, “no,
nor your wife either. I never was more amazed than when she told
me she was married.”
“Indeed!” replied Sir Reginald stiffly.
“Yes, I put my foot in it rather; I always do if there is the slightest
aperture for that extremity. Thinking her a girl come on board with
her friends merely to see off some casual acquaintance, I told her
that the chances were that many of those embarking would never
see England again. A most happy remark, was it not?” observed the
sailor emphatically.
“And what then?” asked his companion with averted eyes, busily
arranging the focus of his opera-glasses.
“Oh!” she said, “don’t, my husband is going;” and then she burst
into floods of tears. Such oceans I never saw; how they poured down
into Portsmouth Dock I shan’t soon forget.
“Did she say that I was her husband?” inquired Sir Reginald,
looking at him searchingly.
“Yes, of course she did. You are, are you not?” returning his gaze
with wide-open curious eyes.
“I am,” very shortly. “After all, that is not a P. and O. boat. Now she
is close, you can easily see that she is one of the Messageries; yes,
you were right after all, and I was wrong,” said Sir Reginald,
changing the conversation and handing the glasses back to the
lieutenant.
A few minutes later he moved away, and leaning over the
bulwarks in a secluded spot he finished his cheroot alone. Somehow
his heart felt lighter than it had done for a long time; and when, some
hours later, he went below to his “horse-box,” and found his own
particular fellow-passenger asleep and snoring, he took out a cabinet
photo of Alice, taken shortly after their wedding, and gazed at it long
and earnestly. How happy she looked—how lovely! Infamously as
she had treated him, there was no one like his Alice after all. He had
the weakness to kiss the pasteboard and put it under his pillow, and
in a few minutes was sound asleep.
The Alligator of course stopped at Port Saïd, that perennial abode
of sand, flies, and dogs; full of melancholy-looking empty cafés
chantants, where the performers, ranged on the platforms, and all
ready to strike up, appear to be only waiting for an audience, and
audience there is none. The sandy streets were full of people—
Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics. The home-coming Anglo-Indian,
with stupendous mushroom topee swathed in a quarter of a mile of
white puggaree, and armed with a large double-covered umbrella,
passes the out-going “Griff,” got up in pot-hat, dogskin gloves, cane,
etc., with a stony stare.
But a very little of Port Saïd goes a long way with most people;
and the Alligator passengers, having laid in a supply of eau-de-
cologne, oranges, and umbrellas, with which to face the Red Sea,
were not sorry to troop back on board to the welcome signal of the
“dinner” flag.
They edged their way cautiously through the Canal, and bore
down the Red Sea with wind and weather in their favour. The sky
and sea were like Oxford and Cambridge blue; there was not a ripple
in the water. The far-receding Arabian coast engaged the attention of
at least a dozen deluded opera-glasses looking out for Mount Sinai.
Oddly-shaped islands were passed, including the notorious
“Brothers,” so little above water and so much in the line of traffic, that
more than one ill-fated steamer has borne down on them at full
speed and sunk like a stone. Aden was left behind in due time, and
after a pleasant breezy run across the Indian Ocean, one early
morning Colaba lighthouse was descried in sight, and not long
afterwards they were steaming majestically up Bombay harbour, and
anchored off the Apollo Bund. To a new arrival, how bright and
gorgeous and eastern it all looked!
The long low stretch of land, covered with white and yellow
buildings of all shapes and sizes, set off with a background of green
trees; rising here and there against the turquoise sky were palms
lofty and graceful, which alone made everyone realise that they were
actually in the East at last.
The harbour was crowded with shipping. Steamers and sailing
ships at anchor abounded on all sides; and flitting in every direction
were native bunderboats plying between them and the shore.
Fishing-boats, with enormous lateen-shaped sails, were spread up
the harbour towards Elephanta. Even the grotesque junk was
represented; and altogether the scene was novel and lively. And now
for the moment of parting and disembarking on board the Alligator.
None of the former were particularly tender, for there had been no
very prononcé flirtations. In this respect the troopers pale before the
P. and O., and those who were bound for the same station had
generally herded together on the voyage out. There was wild work at
the railway station, but after awhile the Alligator’s late freight were
steaming along to their several destinations in Bengal, Madras, or
Bombay.
Sir Reginald Fairfax and Captain Vaughan, Seventeenth Hussars,
along with the draft in their charge, were forwarded to Camelabad;
and after a wearisome three-days’ journey, half-blinded with glare
and smothered with dust, they found themselves (figuratively
speaking) in the arms of their brother “Braves.” The Seventeenth had
only recently arrived in the station, and had barely shaken down into
the quarters vacated by the out-going “Guides,” whose furniture,
horses, and traps they had also succeeded to, after the exchange of
sundry bags of rupees, as horses, traps and furniture, once settled at
an Indian station, rarely leave it. An old habitué will say to a new
arrival—a bride most likely, and vain of her first equipage:
“Oh, I see you have got the Carsons carriage.”
“Oh dear no; it is ours.”
“Yes, I know that, of course; but it was the Carsons’, and before
that it belonged to the Boltons, who got it from the Kennedys, who
brought it from Madras.”
Camelabad was a lively populous station, large and scattered.
There was always something going on. The hospitality of the Anglo-
Indian is proverbial; society, as a rule, pulls well together. The
backbiting, scandal, and cause for scandal, so much attributed to
Indian circles, is no worse out there than it is at home. The fact of
being fellow exiles draws people together, and they are more genial
to each other than in their native land.
But to return to Camelabad. It was certainly a very gay place;
dances, dinners, theatricals, “At homes,” not to speak of polo
matches, sky races, and paper-chases, succeeded each other
rapidly. The Seventeenth Hussars were soon drawn into the giddy
vortex; they set up a weekly “function,” and gave a capital ball, and
speedily ingratiated themselves with their neighbours. They went
everywhere and did everything, “as people always do who have not
long come out,” quoth the Anglo-Indian of thirty years’ standing with
lofty contempt. They all went out with one exception, and he never
mixed in society; for which reason, strange to say, society was most
anxious to make his acquaintance. The Seventeenth were
repeatedly asked: “Why does not your junior major show? Excepting
on boards or courts-martial, he is never to be seen.”
“Why does he not come and call?” a lady of high social position
asked the colonel. “I want to have him to dinner. What makes him so
unsociable? Such a handsome young man too! I saw him at the
review on the Queen’s birthday. You must stir him up!”
“I can’t, my dear madam. I have tried to stir him up, as you call it,
but it was no good. Nevertheless, he is a capital fellow; first-rate
officer; keen sportsman; and awfully popular with men. But I take it
he does not care for ladies; got rather a facer from one of them, I
fancy.”
This having transpired, Sir Reginald became more interesting than
ever to the public mind; but as all invitations invariably met the same
fate—a polite refusal—he was in time permitted to “gang his ain
gait,” and relegated to the ranks of the outer barbarians. He played
polo with the regimental team, rode the regimental cracks in the sky
races, and was looked on as an enormous acquisition by the
Seventeenth, who considered him a kind of Admirable Crichton in a
small way, his riding, shooting, and cricketing being much above par.
His personal appearance they regarded with undisguised
complacency as a valuable adjunct to the average good looks of the
corps; and he was installed in their opinion as an out-and-out good
fellow and thorough gentleman.
“I used to be sick of hearing some of the Fifth fellows quoting
Fairfax for this, that, and the other,” remarked one; “but, strange to
say, their swan is a swan after all, and has not turned out to be that
very toothsome but homely bird—a goose!”