ONCE A WEEK

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

 THE DAY'S PLAY THE HOLIDAY ROUND THE SUNNY SIDE ONCE ON A TIME NOT THAT IT MATTERS IF I MAY FIRST PLAYS SECOND PLAYS MR. PIM

 ONCE A WEEK

 BY

 A. A. MILNE

 AUTHOR OF "THE DAY'S PLAY" AND "THE HOLIDAY ROUND"

 THIRD EDITION

 METHUEN & CO LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W. C. LONDON

 _First Published_ _October 15th, 1914_ _Second Edition_ _March ... 1917_ _Third Edition_ _1922_

Transcriber's Note

 Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. An expanded table of contents, in addition to the one originally published, has been provided below:

 THE HEIR WINTER SPORT A BAKER'S DOZEN A TRAGEDY IN LITTLE THE FINANCIER THE DOUBLE A BREATH OF LIFE "UNDER ENTIRELY NEW MANAGEMENT" A FAREWELL TOUR THE TRUTH ABOUT HOME RAILS THE KING'S SONS DISAPPOINTMENT AMONG THE ANIMALS A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA OLD FRIENDS GETTING MARRIED HOME AFFAIRS AN INSURANCE ACT BACHELOR RELICS LORDS TEMPORAL THE MISSING CARD SILVER LININGS THE ORDER OF THE BATH A TRUNK CALL OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES THE PARTING GUEST THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER THE SAME OLD STORY THE SPREADING WALNUT TREE DEFINITIONS A BILLIARD LESSON BURLESQUES THE SEASIDE NOVELETTE THE SECRET OF THE ARMY AEROPLANE THE HALO THEY GAVE THEMSELVES A DIDACTIC NOVEL MERELY PLAYERS ON THE BAT'S BACK UNCLE EDWARD THE RENASCENCE OF BRITAIN THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT ONE OF OUR SUFFERERS IN THE SWIM THE MEN WHO SUCCEED THE HEIR THE STATESMAN THE MAGNATE THE DOCTOR THE NEWSPAPER PROPRIETOR THE COLLECTOR THE ADVENTURER THE EXPLORER

 TO

 MY COLLABORATOR

 WHO BUYS THE INK AND PAPER LAUGHS AND, IN FACT, DOES ALL THE REALLY DIFFICULT PART OF THE BUSINESS THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED IN MEMORY OF A WINTER'S MORNING IN SWITZERLAND

CONTENTS

 PAGE THE HEIR 1

 WINTER SPORT 29

 A BAKER'S DOZEN 61

 GETTING MARRIED 127

 HOME AFFAIRS 149

 OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES 183

 BURLESQUES 215

 MERELY PLAYERS 251

 THE MEN WHO SUCCEED 281

NOTE

These sketches have previously appeared in _Punch_, to whose proprietorsI am much indebted for permission to reprint. 

THE HEIR

THE HEIR

I. --HE INTRODUCES HIMSELF

"In less refined circles than ours, " I said to Myra, "your behaviourwould be described as swank. Really, to judge from the airs you put on, you might be the child's mother. "

"He's jealous because he's not an aunt himself. Isn't he, duckseydarling?"

"I do wish you wouldn't keep dragging the baby into the conversation; wecan make it go quite well as a duologue. As to being jealous--why, it'sabsurd. True, I'm not an aunt, but in a very short time I shall be anuncle by marriage, which sounds to me much superior. That is, " I added, "if you're still equal to it. "

Myra blew me a kiss over the cradle. 

"Another thing you've forgotten, " I went on, "is that I'm down for aplace as a godfather. Archie tells me that it isn't settled yet, butthat there's a good deal of talk about it in the clubs. Who's the othergoing to be? Not Thomas, I suppose? That would be making the thingrather a farce. "

"Hasn't Dahlia broken it to you?" said Myra anxiously. 

"Simpson?" I asked, in an awed whisper. 

Myra nodded. "And, of course, Thomas, " she said. 

"Heavens! Not three of us? What a jolly crowd we shall be. Thomas canplay our best ball. We might----"

"But of course there are only going to be two godfathers, " she said, andleant over the cradle again. 

I held up my three end fingers. "Thomas, " I said, pointing to thesmallest, "me, " I explained, pointing to the next, "and Simpson, thetall gentleman in glasses. One, two, three. "

"Oh, baby, " sighed Myra, "what a very slow uncle by marriage you'regoing to have!"

I stood and gazed at my three fingers for some time. 

"I've got it, " I said at last, and I pulled down the middle one. "Therumour in the clubs was unauthorized. I don't get a place after all. "

"_Don't_ say you mind, " pleaded Myra. "You see, Dahlia thought that asyou were practically one of the family already, an uncle-elect bymarriage, and as she didn't want to choose between Thomas andSamuel----"

"Say no more. I was only afraid that she might have something against mymoral character. Child, " I went on, rising and addressing theunresponsive infant, "England has lost a godfather this day, but theworld has gained a----what? I don't know. I want my tea. "

Myra gave the baby a last kiss and got up. 

"Can I trust him with you while I go and see about Dahlia?"

"I'm not sure. It depends how I feel. I may change him with some poorbaby in the village. Run away, aunt, and leave us men to ourselves. Wehave several matters to discuss. "

When the child and I were alone together, I knelt by his cradle andsurveyed his features earnestly. I wanted to see what it was he had tooffer Myra which I could not give her. "This, " I said to myself, "is theface which has come between her and me, " for it was unfortunately truethat I could no longer claim Myra's undivided attention. But the more Ilooked at him the more mysterious the whole thing became to me. 

"Not a bad kid?" said a voice behind me. 

I turned and saw Archie. 

"Yours, I believe, " I said, and I waved him to the cradle. 

Archie bent down and tickled the baby's chin, making appropriate noisesthe while--one of the things a father has to learn to do. 

"Who do you think he's like?" he asked proudly. 

"The late Mr. Gladstone, " I said, after deep thought. 

"Wrong. Hallo, here's Dahlia coming out. I hope, for your sake, that thebaby's all right. If she finds he's caught measles or anything, you'llget into trouble. "

By a stroke of bad luck the child began to cry as soon as he saw theladies. Myra rushed up to him. 

"Poor little darling, " she said soothingly. "Did his uncle by marriagefrighten him, then?"

"Don't listen to her, Dahlia, " I said. "I haven't done anything to him. We were chatting together quite amicably until he suddenly caught sightof Myra and burst into tears. "

"He's got a little pain, " said Dahlia gently taking him up and pattinghim. 

"I think the trouble is mental, " suggested Archie. "He looks to me as ifhe had something on his conscience. Did he say anything to you about itwhen you were alone?"

"He didn't say much, " I confessed, "but he seemed to be keepingsomething back. I think he wants a bit of a run, really. "

"Poor little lamb, " said Dahlia. "There, he's better now, thank you. "She looked up at Archie and me. "I don't believe you two love him abit. "

Archie smiled at his wife and went over to the tea-table to pour out. Isat on the grass and tried to analyse my feelings to my nephew bymarriage. 

"As an acquaintance, " I said, "he is charming; I know no one who isbetter company. If I cannot speak of his more solid qualities, it isonly because I do not know him well enough. But to say whether I lovehim or not is difficult; I could tell you better after our firstquarrel. However, there is one thing I must confess. I am rather jealousof him. "

"You envy his life of idleness?"

"No, I envy him the amount of attention he gets from Myra. The love shewastes on him which might be better employed on me is a heartrendingthing to witness. As her betrothed I should expect to occupy the premierplace in her affections, but, really, I sometimes think that if the babyand I both fell into the sea she would jump in and save the baby first. "

"Don't talk about his falling into the sea, " said Dahlia, with ashudder; "I can't a-bear it. "

"I think it will be all right, " said Archie, "I was touching wood allthe time. "

"What a silly godfather he nearly had!" whispered Myra at the cradle. "It quite makes you smile, doesn't it, baby? Oh, Dahlia, he's just likeArchie when he smiles!"

"Oh, yes, he's the living image of Archie, " said Dahlia confidently. 

I looked closely at Archie and then at the baby. 

"I should always know them apart, " I said at last. "That, " and I pointedto the one at the tea-table, "is Archie, and this, " and I pointed to theone in the cradle, "is the baby. But then I've such a wonderful memoryfor faces. "

"Baby, " said Myra, "I'm afraid you're going to know some very foolishpeople. "

II. --HE MEETS HIS GODFATHERS

Thomas and Simpson arrived by the twelve-thirty train, and Myra and Idrove down in the wagonette to meet them. Myra handled the ribbons("handled the ribbons"--we must have that again) while I sat on thebox-seat and pointed out any traction-engines and things in the road. Iam very good at this. 

"I suppose, " I said, "there will be some sort of ceremony at thestation? The station-master will read an address while his littledaughter presents a bouquet of flowers. You don't often get twogodfathers travelling by the same train. Look out, " I said, as we swunground a corner, "there's an ant coming. "

"What did you say? I'm so sorry, but I listen awfully badly when I'mdriving. "

"As soon as I hit upon anything really good I'll write it down. So far Ihave been throwing off the merest trifles. When we are married, Myra----"

"Go on; I love that. "

"When we are married we shan't be able to afford horses, so we'll keep acouple of bicycles, and you'll be able to hear everything I say. Howjolly for you. "

"All right, " said Myra quietly. 

There was no formal ceremony on the platform, but I did not seem to feelthe want of it when I saw Simpson stepping from the train with anenormous Teddy-bear under his arm. 

"Hallo, dear old chap, " he said, "here we are! You're looking at mybear. I quite forgot it until I'd strapped up my bags, so I had to bringit like this. It squeaks, " he added, as if that explained it. "Listen, "and the piercing roar of the bear resounded through the station. 

"Very fine. Hallo, Thomas!"

"Hallo!" said Thomas, and went to look after his luggage. 

"I hope he'll like it, " Simpson went on. "Its legs move up and down. " Heput them into several positions, and then squeaked it again. "Jolly, isn't it?"

"Ripping, " I agreed. "Who's it for?"

He looked at me in astonishment for a moment. 

"My dear old chap, for the baby. "

"Oh, I see. That's awfully nice of you. He'll love it. " I wondered ifSimpson had ever seen a month-old baby. "What's its name?"

"I've been calling it Duncan in the train, but, of course, he will wantto choose his own name for it. "

"Well, you must talk it over with him to-night after the ladies havegone to bed. How about your luggage? We mustn't keep Myra waiting. "

"Hallo, Thomas!" said Myra, as we came out. "Hallo, Samuel! Hooray!"

"Hallo, Myra!" said Thomas. "All right?"

"Myra, this is Duncan, " said Simpson, and the shrill roar of the bearrang out once more. 

Myra, her mouth firm, but smiles in her eyes, looked down lovingly athim. Sometimes I think that she would like to be Simpson's mother. Perhaps, when we are married, we might adopt him. 

"For baby?" she said, stroking it with her whip. "But he won't beallowed to take it into church with him, you know. No, Thomas, I won'thave the luggage next to me; I want some one to talk to. You come. "

Inside the wagonette Simpson squeaked his bear at intervals, while Itried to prepare him for his coming introduction to his godson. Havingknown the baby for nearly a week, and being to some extent in Myra'sconfidence, I felt quite the family man beside Simpson. 

"You must try not to be disappointed with his looks, " I said. "Anyway, don't let Dahlia think you are. And if you want to do the right thingsay that he's just like Archie. Archie doesn't mind this for somereason. "

"Is he tall for his age?"

"Samuel, pull yourself together. He isn't tall at all. If he is anythinghe is long, but how long only those can say who have seen him in hisbath. You do realize that he is only a month old?"

"My dear old boy, of course. One can't expect much from him. I supposehe isn't even toddling about yet?"

"No--no. Not actually toddling. "

"Well, we can teach him later on. And I'm going to have a lot of funwith him. I shall show him my watch--babies always love that. "

There was a sudden laugh from the front, which changed just a little toolate into a cough. The fact is I had bet Myra a new golf-ball thatSimpson would show the baby his watch within two minutes of meeting him. Of course, it wasn't a certainty yet, but I thought there would be noharm in mentioning the make of ball I preferred. So I changed theconversation subtly to golf. 

Amidst loud roars from the bear we drove up to the house and weregreeted by Archie. 

"Hallo, Thomas! how are you? Hallo, Simpson! Good heavens! I know thatface. Introduce me, Samuel. "

"This is Duncan. I brought him down for your boy to play with. "

"Duncan, of course. The boy will love it. He's tired of me already. Heproposes to meet his godfathers at four p. M. Precisely. So you'll havenearly three hours to think of something genial to say to him. "

We spent the last of the three hours playing tennis, and at four p. M. Precisely the introduction took place. By great good luck Duncan wasabsent; Simpson would have wasted his whole two minutes in making itsqueak. 

"Baby, " said Dahlia, "this is your Uncle Thomas. "

"Hallo!" said Thomas, gently kissing the baby's hand. "Good old boy, "and he felt for his pipe. 

"Baby, " said Dahlia, "this is your Uncle Samuel. "

As he leant over the child I whipped out my watch and murmured, "Go!" 4hrs. 1 min. 25 sec. I wished Myra had not taken my "two minutes" soliterally, but I felt that the golf-ball was safe. 

Simpson looked at the baby as if fascinated, and the baby stared back athim. It was a new experience for both of them. 

"He's _just_ like Archie, " he said at last, remembering my advice. "Onlysmaller, " he added. 

4 hrs. 2 min. 7 sec. 

"I can see you, baby, " he said. "Goo-goo. "

Myra came and rested her chin on my shoulder. Silently I pointed to thefinishing place on my watch, and she gave a little gurgle of excitement. There was only one minute left. 

"I wonder what you're thinking about, " said Simpson to the baby. "Is itmy glasses you want to play with?"

"Help!" I murmured. "This will never do. "

"He just looks and looks. Ah! but his Uncle Samuel knows what baby wantsto see. " (I squeezed Myra's arm. 4 hrs. 3 mins. 10 secs. There was justtime. ) "I wonder if it's anything in his uncle's waistcoat?"

"No!" whispered Myra to me in agony. "_Certainly_ not. "

"He _shall_ see it if he wants to, " said Simpson soothingly, and put hishand to his waistcoat pocket. I smiled triumphantly at Myra. He had fiveseconds to get the watch out--plenty of time. 

"Bother!" said Simpson. "I left it upstairs. "

III. --HE CHOOSES A NAME

The afternoon being wet we gathered round the billiard-room fire andwent into committee. 

"The question before the House, " said Archie, "is what shall the baby becalled, and why. Dahlia and I have practically decided on his names, butit would amuse us to hear your inferior suggestions and point out howridiculous they are. "

Godfather Simpson looked across in amazement at Godfather Thomas. 

"Really, you are taking a good deal upon yourself, Archie, " he saidcoldly. "It is entirely a matter for my colleague and myself to decidewhether the ground is fit for--to decide, I should say, what the childis to be called. Unless this is quite understood we shall hand in ourresignations. "

"We've been giving a lot of thought to it, " said Thomas, opening hiseyes for a moment. "And our time is valuable. " He arranged the cushionsat his back and closed his eyes again. 

"Well, as a matter of fact, the competition isn't quite closed, " saidArchie. "Entries can still be received. "

"We haven't really decided at all, " put in Dahlia gently. "It _is_ sodifficult. "

"In that case, " said Samuel, "Thomas and I will continue to act. It ismy pleasant duty to inform you that we had a long consultationyesterday, and finally agreed to call him--er--Samuel Thomas. "

"Thomas Samuel, " said Thomas sleepily. 

"How did you think of those names?" I asked. "It must have taken you atremendous time. "

"With a name like Samuel Thomas Mannering, " went on Simpson ["ThomasSamuel Mannering, " murmured Thomas], "your child might achieve almostanything. In private life you would probably call him Sam. "

"Tom, " said a tired voice. 

"Or, more familiarly, Sammy. "

"Tommy, " came in a whisper from the sofa. 

"What do you think of it?" asked Dahlia. 

"I mustn't say, " said Archie; "they're my guests. But I'll tell youprivately some time. "

There was silence for a little, and then a thought occurred to me. 

"You know, Archie, " I said, "limited as their ideas are, you're ratherin their power. Because I was looking through the service in church onSunday, and there comes a point when the clergyman says to thegodfathers, 'Name this child. ' Well, there you are, you know. They'vegot you. You may have fixed on Montmorency Plantagenet, but they've onlyto say 'Bert, ' and the thing is done. "

"You all forget, " said Myra, coming over to sit on the arm of my chair, "that there's a godmother too. I shall forbid the Berts. "

"Well, that makes it worse. You'll have Myra saying 'MontmorencyPlantagenet, ' and Samuel saying 'Samuel Thomas, ' and Thomas saying'Thomas Samuel. '"

"It will sound rather well, " said Archie, singing it over to himself. "Thomas, you take the tenor part, of course: 'Thomas Samuel, ThomasSamuel, Thom-as Sam-u-el. ' We must have a rehearsal. "

For five minutes Myra, Thomas, and Simpson chanted in harmony, beingassisted after the first minute by Archie, who took the alto part of"Solomon Joel. " He explained that as this was what he and his wifereally wanted the child christened ("Montmorency Plantagenet" being onlyan invention of the godmother's) it would probably be necessary for himto join in too. 

"Stop!" cried Dahlia, when she could bear it no longer; "you'll wakebaby. "

There was an immediate hush. 

"Samuel, " said Archie in a whisper, "if you wake the baby I'll killyou. "

The question of his name was still not quite settled, and once more wegave ourselves up to thought. 

"Seeing that he's the very newest little Rabbit, " said Myra, "I do thinkhe might be called after some very great cricketer. "

"That was the idea in christening him 'Samuel, '" said Archie. 

"Gaukrodger Carkeek Butt Bajana Mannering, " I suggested--"something likethat?"

"Silly; I meant 'Charles, ' after Fry. "

"'Schofield, ' after Haigh, " murmured Thomas. 

"'Warren, ' after Bardsley, would be more appropriate to a Rabbit, " saidSimpson, beaming round at us. There was, however, no laughter. We hadall just thought of it ourselves. 

"The important thing in christening a future first-class cricketer, "said Simpson, "is to get the initials right. What could be better than'W. G. ' as a nickname for Grace? But if 'W. G. 's' initials had been 'Z. Z. , ' where would you have been?"

"Here, " said Archie. 

The shock of this reply so upset Simpson that his glasses fell off. Hepicked them out of the fender and resumed his theme. 

"Now, if the baby were christened 'Samuel Thomas' his initials would be'S. T. , ' which are perfect. And the same as Coleridge's. "

"Is that Coleridge the wicket-keeper, or the fast bowler?"

Simpson opened his mouth to explain, and then, just in time, decided notto. 

"I forgot to say, " said Archie, "that anyhow he's going to be calledBlair, after his mamma. "

"If his name's Blair Mannering, " I said at once, "he'll have to write abook. You can't waste a name like that. _The Crimson Spot_, by BlairMannering. Mr. Blair Mannering, the well-known author of _The Gash_. Ournew serial, _The Stain on the Bath Mat_, has been specially written forus by Mr. And Mrs. Blair Mannering. It's simply asking for it. "

"Don't talk about his wife yet, please, " smiled Dahlia. "Let me have hima little while. "

"Well, he can be a writer _and_ a cricketer. Why not? There are others. I need only mention my friend, S. Simpson. "

"But the darling still wants another name, " said Myra. "Let's call himJohn to-day, and William to-morrow, and Henry the next day, and so onuntil we find out what suits him best. "

"Let's all go upstairs now and call him Samuel, " said Samuel. 

"Thomas, " said Thomas. 

We looked at Dahlia. She got up and moved to the door. In single file wefollowed her on tip-toe to the nursery. The baby was fast asleep. 

"Thomas, " we all said in a whisper, "Thomas, Thomas. "

There was no reply. 

"Samuel!"

Dead silence. 

"I think, " said Dahlia, "we'll call him Peter. "

IV. --HE IS CHRISTENED

On the morning of the christening, as I was on my way to the bathroom, Imet Simpson coming out of it. There are people who have never seenSimpson in his dressing-gown; people also who have never waited for thesun to rise in glory above the snow-capped peaks of the Alps; who havenever stood on Waterloo Bridge and watched St. Paul's come through themist of an October morning. Well, well, one cannot see everything. 

"Hallo, old chap!" he said. "I was just coming to talk to you. I wantyour advice. "

"A glass of hot water the last thing at night, " I said, "no sugar ormilk, a Turkish bath once a week and plenty of exercise. You'll get itdown in no time. "

"Don't be an ass. I mean about the christening. I've been to a wedding, of course, but that isn't quite the same thing. "

"A moment, while I turn on the tap. " I turned it on and came back tohim. "Now then, I'm at your service. "

"Well, what's the--er--usual costume for a christening?"

"Leave that to the mother, " I said. "She'll see that the baby's dressedproperly. "

"I mean for a godfather. "

Dahlia has conveniently placed a sofa outside the bathroom door. Idropped into it and surveyed the dressing-gown thoughtfully. 

"Go like that, " I said at last. 

"What I want to know is whether it's a top-hat affair or not?"

"Have you brought a top-hat?"

"Of course. "

"Then you must certainly---- I say! Come out of it, Myra!"

I jumped up from the sofa, but it was too late. She had stolen my bath. 

"Well, of all the cheek----"

The door opened and Myra's head appeared round the corner. 

"Hush! you'll wake the baby, " she said. "Oh, Samuel, what a dream! _Why_haven't I seen it before?"

"You have, Myra. I've often dressed up in it. "

"Then I suppose it looks different with a sponge. Because----"

"Really!" I said as I took hold of Simpson and led him firmly away; "ifthe baby knew that you carried on like this of a morning he'd beshocked. "

Thomas is always late for breakfast. Simpson on this occasion wasdelayed by his elaborate toilet. They came in last together, by oppositedoors, and stood staring at each other. Simpson wore a frock-coat, dashing double-breasted waistcoat, perfectly creased trousers, and amagnificent cravat; Thomas had on flannels and an old blazer. 

"By Jove!" said Archie, seeing Simpson first, "you _are_ a----" and thenhe caught sight of Thomas. "Hul-_lo_!" His eyes went from one to theother, and at last settled on the toast. He went on with his breakfast. "The two noble godfathers, " he murmured. 

Meanwhile the two godfathers continued to gaze at each other as iffascinated. At last Simpson spoke. 

"We can't _both_ be right, " he said slowly to himself. 

Thomas woke up. 

"Is it the christening to-day? I quite forgot. "

"It is, Thomas. The boat-race is to-morrow. "

"Well, I can change afterwards. You don't expect me to wear anythinglike that?" he said, pointing to Simpson. 

"Don't change, " said Archie. "Both go as you are. Mick and Mack, theComedy Duo. Simpson does the talking while Thomas falls over the pews. "

Simpson collected his breakfast and sat down next to Myra. 

"Am I all right?" he asked her doubtfully. 

"Your tie's up at the back of your neck, " I said. 

"Because if Dahlia would prefer it, " he went on, ignoring me, "I couldeasily wear a plain dark tweed. "

"You're beautiful, Samuel, " said Myra. "I hope you'll look as nice at mywedding. "

"You don't think I shall be mistaken for the father?" he askedanxiously. 

"By Peter? Well, that _is_ just possible. Perhaps if----"

"I think you're right, " said Simpson, and after breakfast he changedinto the plain dark tweed. 

As the hour approached we began to collect in the hall, Simpson readingthe service to himself for the twentieth time. 

"Do we have to say anything?" asked Thomas, as he lit his third pipe. 

Simpson looked at him in horror. 

"Say anything? Of course we do! Haven't you studied it? Here, you'lljust have time to read it through. "

"Too late now. Better leave it to the inspiration of the moment, " Isuggested. "Does anybody know if there's a collection, because if so Ishall have to go and get some money. "

"There will be a collection for the baby afterwards, " said Archie. "Ihope you've all been saving up. "

"Here he comes!" said Simpson, and Peter Blair Mannering came down thestairs with Dahlia and Myra. 

"Good morning, everybody, " said Dahlia. 

"Good morning. Say 'Good morning, ' baby. "

"He's rather nervous, " said Myra. "He says he's never been christenedbefore, and what's it like?"

"I expect he'll be all right with two such handsome godfathers, " saidDahlia. 

"_Isn't_ Mr. Simpson looking well?" said Myra in a society voice. "Anddo you know, dear, that's the _third_ suit I've seen him in to-day. "

"Well, are we all ready?"

"You're quite sure about his name?" said Archie to his wife. "This isyour last chance, you know. Say the word to Thomas before it's toolate. "

"I think Peter is rather silly, " I said. 

"Why Blair?" said Myra. "I ask you. "

Dahlia smiled sweetly at us and led the way with P. B. Mannering to thecar. We followed ... And Simpson on the seat next the driver read theservice to himself for the last time. 

 . . . . . 

"I feel very proud, " said Archie as we came out of the church. "I'm notonly a father, but my son has a name. And now I needn't call him 'er'any more. "

"He _was_ a good boy, wasn't he?" said Myra. 

"Thomas, say at once that your godson was a good boy. "

But Thomas was quiet. He looked years older. 

"I've never read the service before, " he said. "I didn't quite know whatwe were in for. It seems that Simpson and I have undertaken a heavyresponsibility; we are practically answerable for the child's education. We are supposed to examine him every few years and find out if he isbeing taught properly. "

"You can bowl to him later on if you like. "

"No, no. It means more than that. " He turned to Dahlia. "I think, " hesaid, "Simpson and I will walk home. We must begin at once to discussthe lines on which we shall educate our child. "

V. --HE SEES LIFE

There was no one in sight. If 'twere done well, 'twere well donequickly. I gripped the perambulator, took a last look round, and thensuddenly rushed it across the drive and down a side path, not stoppinguntil we were well concealed from the house. Panting, I dropped into aseat, having knocked several seconds off the quarter-mile record forbabies under one. 

"Hallo!" said Myra. 

"Dash it, are there people everywhere to-day? I can't get a moment tomyself. 'O solitude, where----'"

"What are you going to do with baby?"

"Peter and I are going for a walk. " My eyes rested on her for more thana moment. She was looking at me over an armful of flowers ... And--well--"You can come too if you like, " I said. 

"I've got an awful lot to do, " she smiled doubtfully. 

"Oh, if you'd rather count the washing. "

She sat down next to me. 

"Where's Dahlia?"

"I don't know. We meant to have left a note for her, but we came away inrather a hurry. '_Back at twelve. Peter. _'"

"'_I am quite happy. Pursuit is useless_, '" suggested Myra. "PoorDahlia, she'll be frightened when she sees the perambulator gone. "

"My dear, what _could_ happen to it? Is this Russia?"

"Oh, what happens to perambulators in Russia?" asked Myra eagerly. 

"They spell them differently, " I said, after a little thought. "Anyhow, Dahlia's all right. "

"Well, I'll just take these flowers in and then I'll come back. If youand Peter will have me?"

"I think so, " I said. 

Myra went in and left me to my reflections, which were mainly that Peterhad the prettiest aunt in England, and that the world was very good. Butmy pleased and fatuous smile over these thoughts was disturbed by herannouncement on her return. 

"Dahlia says, " she began, "that we may have Peter for an hour, but hemust come in at once if he cries. "

I got up in disgust. 

"You've spoilt my morning, " I said. 

"Oh, _no_!"

"I had a little secret from Dahlia, or rather Peter and I had a littlesecret together; at least, you and I and Peter had a secret. Anyhow, itwas a secret. And I was feeling very wicked and happy--Peter and I bothwere; and we were going to let you feel wicked too. And now Dahlia knowsall about the desperate deed we were planning, and, to make it worse, all she says is, 'Certainly! By all means! Only don't get his feet wet. 'Peter, " I said, as I bent over the sleeping innocent, "we are betrayed. "

"Miss Mannering will now relate her experiences, " said Myra. "I wentinto the hall to put down the flowers, and just as I was coming out Isaw Dahlia in the corner with a book. And she said, 'Tell your youngman----'"

"How vulgar!" I interrupted. 

"'Do be careful with my baby. ' And I said in great surprise, 'Whatbaby?' And she said, 'He was very kindly running him up and down thedrive just now. Peter loves it, but don't let them go on too long orthere may be an accident. ' And then she gave a few more instructions, and--here we are. "

"Peter, " I said to the somnolent one, "you can't deceive a woman. Alsomen are pigs. Wake up, and we will apologize to your aunt for doubtingher. Sorry, Myra. "

Myra pinned a flower in my coat and forgave me, and we walked offtogether with the perambulator. 

"Peter is seeing a bit of life this morning, " I said. "What shall weshow him now?"

"Thomas and Samuel are playing golf, " said Myra casually. 

I looked at her doubtfully. 

"Is that quite suitable?"

"I think if we didn't let him stay too long it would be all right. Dahlia wouldn't like him to be overexcited. "

"Well, he can't be introduced to the game too early. Come on, Peter. "And we pushed into more open country. 

The 9-hole course which Simpson planned a year ago is not yet used forthe Open Championship, though it is certainly better than it was lastsummer. But it is short and narrow and dog-legged, and, particularlywhen Simpson is playing on it, dangerous. 

"We are now in the zone of fire, " I said. "Samuel's repainted ninepennymay whiz past us at any moment. Perhaps I had better go first. " I tiedmy handkerchief to Myra's sunshade and led the way with the white flag. 

A ball came over the barn and rolled towards us, just reaching one ofthe wheels. I gave a yell. 

"Hallo!" bellowed Simpson from behind the barn. 

"You're firing on the ambulance, " I shouted. 

He hurried up, followed leisurely by Thomas. 

"I say, " he said excitedly, "have I hurt him?"

"You have not even waked him. He has the special gift of--was itWellington or Napoleon?--that of being able to sleep through theheaviest battle. "

"Hallo!" said Thomas. "Good old boy! What's he been learning to-day?" headded, with godfatherly interest. 

"We're showing him life to-day. He has come to see Simpson play golf. "

"Doesn't he ever sit up?" asked Simpson, looking at him with interest. "I don't see how he's going to see anything if he's always on his back. Unless it were something in the air. "

"Don't you ever get the ball in the air?" said Myra innocently. 

"What will his Uncle Samuel show him if he does sit up?" I asked. "Let'sdecide first if it's going to be anything worth watching. Which hole areyou for? The third?"

"The eighth. My last shot had a bit of a slice. "

"A slice! It had about the whole joint. I doubt, " I said to Myra, "if weshall do much good here; let's push on. "

But Myra had put down the hood and taken some of the clothes off Peter. Peter stirred slightly. He seemed to know that something was going on. Then suddenly he woke up, just in time to see Simpson miss the ballcompletely. Instantly he gave a cry. 

"Now you've done it, " said Myra. "He's got to go in. And I'm afraidhe'll go away with quite a wrong idea of the game. "

But I was not thinking of the baby. Although I am to be his uncle bymarriage I had forgotten him. 

"If that's about Simpson's form to-day, " I said to Myra, "you and Icould still take them on and beat them. "

Myra looked up eagerly. 

"What about Peter?" she asked; but she didn't ask it very firmly. 

"We promised Dahlia to take him in directly he cried, " I said. "She'd bevery upset if she thought she couldn't trust us. And we've got to go infor our clubs, anyway, " I added. 

Peter was sleeping peacefully again, but a promise is a promise. Afterall, we had done a good deal for his education that morning. We hadshown him human nature at work, and the position of golf in theuniverse. 

"We'll meet you on the first tee, " said Myra to Thomas. 

VI. --HE SLEEPS

"It's sad to think that to-morrow we shall be in London, " said Simpson, with a sigh. 

"Rotten, " agreed Thomas, and took another peach. 

There was a moment's silence. 

"We shall miss you, " I said, after careful thought. I waited in vain forDahlia to say something, and then added, "You must both come again nextyear. "

"Thank you very much. "

"Not at all. " I hate these awkward pauses. If my host or hostess doesn'tdo anything to smooth them over, I always dash in. "It's been delightfulto have you, " I went on. "Are you sure you can't stay till Wednesday?"

"I'm so sorry, " said Dahlia, "but you took me by surprise. I had simplyno idea. Are you really going?"

"I'm afraid so. "

"Are _you_ really staying?" said Archie to me. "Help!"

"What about Peter?" asked Myra. "Isn't he too young to be taken from hisgodfathers?"

"We've been talking that over, " said Simpson, "and I think it will beall right. We've mapped his future out very carefully and we shallunfold it to you when the coffee comes. "

"Thomas is doing it with peach-stones, " I said. "Have another, and makehim a sailor, Thomas, " and I passed the plate. 

"Sailor indeed, " said Dahlia. "He's going to be a soldier. "

"It's too late. Thomas has begun another one. Well, he'll have toswallow the stone. "

"A trifle hard on the Admiralty, " said Archie. "It loses both Thomas andPeter at one gulp. My country, what of thee?"

However, when Thomas had peeled the peach, I cleverly solved thedifficulty by taking it on to my plate while he was looking round forthe sugar. 

"No, no sugar, thanks, " I said, and waved it away. 

With the coffee and cigars Simpson unfolded his scheme of education forPeter. 

"In the first place, " he said, "it is important that even as a child heshould always be addressed in rational English and not in thatridiculous baby-talk so common with young mothers. "

"Oh dear, " said Dahlia. 

"My good Samuel, " I broke in, "this comes well from you. Why, onlyyesterday I heard you talking to him. I think you called him hisnunkey's ickle petsy wetsy lambkin. "

"You misunderstood me, " said Simpson quickly. "I was talking to _you_. "

"Oh!" I said, rather taken aback. "Well--well, I'm not. " I lit a cigar. "And I shall be annoyed if you call me so again. "

"At the age of four, " Simpson went on, "he shall receive his firstlesson in cricket. Thomas will bowl to him----"

"I suppose that means that Thomas will have to be asked down hereagain, " said Archie. "Bother! Still, it's not for four years. "

"Thomas will bowl to him, Archie will keep wicket, and I shall field. "

"And where do I come in?" I asked. 

"You come in after Peter. Unless you would rather have your lessonfirst. "

"That's the second time I've been sat on, " I said to Myra, "Why isSimpson so unkind to me to-night?"

"I suppose he's jealous because you're staying on another week. "

"Probably; still, I don't like it. Could you turn your back on him, doyou think, to indicate our heavy displeasure?"

Myra moved her chair round and rested her elbow on the table. 

"Go on, Samuel, " said Dahlia. "You're lovely to-night. I suppose theseare Thomas's ideas as well as your own?"

"His signature is duly appended to them. "

"I didn't read 'em all, " said Thomas. 

"That's very rash of you, " said Archie. "You don't know what youmightn't let yourself in for. You may have promised to pay the childthreepence a week pocket-money. "

"No, there's nothing like that, " said Simpson, to Archie's evidentdisappointment. "Well, then, at the age of ten he goes to a preparatoryschool. "

"Has he learnt to read yet?" asked Dahlia. "I didn't hear anything aboutit. "

"He can read at six. I forgot to say that I am giving him a book which Ishall expect him to read aloud to Thomas and me on his sixth birthday. "

"Thomas has got _another_ invitation, " said Archie. "Dash it!"

"At fourteen he goes to a public school. The final decision as to whichpublic school he goes to will be left to you, but, of course, we shallexpect to be consulted on the subject. "

"I'll write and tell you what we decide on, " said Archie hastily;"there'll be no need for you to come down and be told aloud. "

"So far we have not arranged anything for him beyond the age offourteen. I now propose to read out a few general rules about hisupbringing which we must insist on being observed. "

"The great question whether Simpson is kicked out of the house to-night, or leaves unobtrusively by the milk train to-morrow morning, is about tobe settled, " I murmured. 

"'RULE ONE. --He must be brought up to be ambidextrous. ' It will be veryuseful, " explained Simpson, "when he fields cover for England. "

"Or when he wants to shake hands with two people at once, " said Archie. 

"'RULE TWO. --He must be taught from the first to speak French and Germanfluently. ' He'll thank you for that later on when he goes abroad. "

"Or when he goes to the National Liberal Club, " said Archie. 

"'RULE THREE. --He should be surrounded as far as possible with beautifulthings. ' Beautiful toys, beautiful wall-paper, beautiful scenery----"

"Beautiful godfathers?" I asked doubtfully. 

Simpson ignored me and went on hurriedly with the rest of his rules. 

"Well, " said Archie, at the end of them, "they're all fairly futile, butif you like to write them out neatly and frame them in gold I don't mindhanging them up in the bathroom. Has anybody else got anything fatuousto say before the ladies leave us?"

I filled my glass. 

"I've really got a lot to say, " I began, "because I consider that I'vebeen rather left out of things. If you come to think of it, I'm the onlyperson here who isn't anything important, all the rest of you beinggodfathers, or godmothers, or mothers, or fathers, or something. However, I won't dwell on that now. But there's one thing I must say, and here it is. " I raised my glass. "Peter Blair Mannering, and may hegrow up to be a better man than any of us!"

Upstairs, in happy innocence of the tremendous task in front of him, thechild slept. Poor baby!

We drank solemnly, but without much hope. 

WINTER SPORT

WINTER SPORT

I. --AN INTRODUCTION

"I had better say at once, " I announced as I turned over the wine list, "that I have come out here to enjoy myself, and enjoy myself I shall. Myra, what shall we drink?"

"You had three weeks' honeymoon in October, " complained Thomas, "andyou're taking another three weeks now. Don't you ever do any work?"

Myra and I smiled at each other. Coming from Thomas, who spends his busyday leaning up against the wireless installation at the Admiralty, theremark amused us. 

"We'll have champagne, " said Myra, "because it's our opening night. Archie, after you with the head-waiter. "

It was due to Dahlia, really, that the Rabbits were hibernating at theHôtel des Angéliques, Switzerland (central-heated throughout); for shehad been ordered abroad, after an illness, to pull herself together alittle, and her doctor had agreed with Archie that she might as well doit at a place where her husband could skate. On the point that Petershould come and skate too, however, Archie was firm. While admittingthat he loved his infant son, he reminded Dahlia that she couldn'tpossibly get through Calais and Pontarlier without declaring Peter, andthat the duty on this class of goods was remarkably heavy. Peter, therefore, was left behind. He had an army of nurses to look after him, and a stenographer to take down his more important remarks. With adaily bulletin and a record of his table-talk promised her, Dahlia wasprepared to be content. 

As for Myra and me, we might have hesitated to take another holiday sosoon, had it not been for a letter I received one morning at breakfast. 

"Simpson is going. " I said. "He has purchased a pair of skis. "

"That does it, " said Myra decisively. And, gurgling happily to herself, she went out and bought a camera. 

For Thomas I can find no excuses. At a moment of crisis he left hiscountry's Navy in jeopardy and, the Admiralty yacht being otherwiseengaged, booked a first return from Cook's. And so it was that at fouro'clock one day we arrived together at the Hôtel des Angéliques, andsome three hours later were settling down comfortably to dinner. 

"I've had a busy time, " said Archie. "I've hired a small bob, a luge anda pair of skis for myself, a pair of snow-shoes and some skates forDahlia, a--a tricycle horse for Simpson, and I don't know what else. Allin French. "

"What _is_ the French for a pair of snow-shoes?" asked Myra. 

"I pointed to them in French. The undersized Robert I got at a bargain. The man who hired it last week broke his leg before his fortnight wasup, and so there was a reduction of several centimes. "

"I've been busy too, " I said. "I've been watching Myra unpack, andtelling her where not to put my things. "

"I packed jolly well--except for the accident. "

"An accident to the boot-oil, " I explained. "If I get down to my lastthree shirts you will notice it. "

We stopped eating for a moment in order to drink Dahlia's health. It wasDahlia's health which had sent us there. 

"Who's your friend, Samuel?" said Archie, as Simpson caught somebody'seye at another table and nodded. 

"A fellow I met in the lift, " said Simpson casually. 

"Samuel, beware of elevator acquaintances, " said Myra in her most solemnmanner. 

"He's rather a good chap. He was at Peterhouse with a friend of mine. Hewas telling me quite a good story about a 'wine' my friend gave thereonce, when----"

"Did you tell him about your 'ginger-beers' at Giggleswick?" Iinterrupted. 

"My dear old chap, he's rather a man to be in with. He knows thePresident. "

"I thought nobody knew the President of the Swiss Republic, " said Myra. "Like the Man in the Iron Mask. "

"Not _that_ President, Myra. The President of the Angéliques SportsClub. "

"Never heard of it, " we all said. 

Simpson polished his glasses and prepared delightedly to give anexplanation. 

"The Sports Club runs everything here, " he began. "It gives you prizesfor fancy costumes and skating and so on. "

"Introduce me to the President at once, " cooed Myra, patting her hairand smoothing down her frock. 

"Even if you were the Treasurer's brother, " said Archie, "you wouldn'tget a prize for skating, Simpson. "

"You've never seen him do a rocking seventeen, sideways. "

Simpson looked at us pityingly. 

"There's a lot more in it than that, " he said. "The President willintroduce you to anybody. One might see--er--somebody one rather likedthe look of, and--er---- Well, I mean in an hotel one wants to enterinto the hotel life and--er--meet other people. "

"Who is she?" said Myra. 

"Anybody you want to marry must be submitted to Myra for approvalfirst, " I said. "We've told you so several times. "

Simpson hastily disclaimed any intention of marrying anybody, and helpedhimself lavishly to champagne. 

It so happened that I was the first of our party to meet the President, an honour which, perhaps, I hardly deserved. While Samuel was seekingtortuous introductions to him through friends of Peterhouse friends ofhis, the President and I fell into each other's arms in the most naturalway. 

It occurred like this. There was a dance after dinner; and Myra, notsatisfied with my appearance, sent me upstairs to put some gloves on. (It is one of the penalties of marriage that one is always being sentupstairs. ) With my hands properly shod I returned to the ball-room, andstood for a moment in a corner while I looked about for her. Suddenly Iheard a voice at my side. 

"Do you want a partner?" it said. 

I turned, and knew that I was face to face with the President. 

"Well----" I began. 

"You are a new-comer, aren't you? I expect you don't know many people. If there is anybody you would like to dance with----"

I looked round the room. It was too good a chance to miss. 

"I wonder, " I said. "That girl over there--in the pink frock--justputting up her fan----"

He almost embraced me. 

"I congratulate you on your taste, " he said. "Excellent! Come with me. "

He went over to the girl in the pink dress, I at his heels. 

"Er--may I introduce?" he said. "Mr. --er--er--yes, this isMiss--er--yes. H'r'm. " Evidently he didn't know her name. 

"Thank you, " I said to him. He nodded and left us. I turned to the girlin the pink frock. She was very pretty. 

"May I have this dance?" I asked. "I've got my gloves on, " I added. 

She looked at me gravely, trying hard not to smile. 

"You may, " said Myra. 

II. --THE OPENING RUN

With a great effort Simpson strapped his foot securely into a ski andturned doubtfully to Thomas. 

"Thomas, " he said, "how do you know which foot is which?"

"It depends whose, " said Thomas. He was busy tying a large rucksack oflunch on to himself, and was in no mood for Samuel's ball-room chatter. 

"You've got one ski on one foot, " I said. "Then the other ski goes onthe foot you've got over. I should have thought you would have seenthat. "

"But I may have put the first one on wrong. "

"You ought to know, after all these years, that you are certain to havedone so, " I said severely. Having had my own hired skis fixed on by the_concierge_ I felt rather superior. Simpson, having bought his inLondon, was regarded darkly by that gentleman, and left to his owndevices. 

"Are we all ready?" asked Myra, who had kept us waiting for twentyminutes. "Archie, what about Dahlia?"

"Dahlia will join us at lunch. She is expecting a letter from Peter bythe twelve o'clock post and refuses to start without it. Also shedoesn't think she is up to ski-ing just yet. Also she wants to have aheart-to-heart talk with the girl in red, and break it to her thatThomas is engaged to several people in London already. "

"Come on, " growled Thomas, and he led the way up the hill. We followedhim in single file. 

It was a day of colour, straight from heaven. On either side thedazzling whiteness of the snow; above, the deep blue of the sky; infront of me the glorious apricot of Simpson's winter suiting. Londonseemed a hundred years away. It was impossible to work up the leastinterest in the Home Rule Bill, the Billiard Tournament, or the state ofSt. Paul's Cathedral. 

"I feel extremely picturesque, " said Archie. "If only we had a wolf ortwo after us, the illusion would be complete. The Boy Trappers, orHalf-Hours among the Rocky Mountains. "

"It is a pleasant thought, Archie, " I said, "that in any wolf troublethe bachelors of the party would have to sacrifice themselves for us. Myra dear, the loss of Samuel in such circumstances would draw us veryclose together. There might be a loss of Thomas too, perhaps--for ifthere was not enough of Simpson to go round, if there was a hungry wolfleft over, would Thomas hesitate?"

"No, " said Thomas, "I should run like a hare. "

Simpson said nothing. His face I could not see; but his back lookedexactly like the back of a man who was trying to look as if he had beenbrought up on skis from a baby and was now taking a small party ofenthusiastic novices out for their first lesson. 

"What an awful shock it would be, " I said, "if we found that Samuelreally did know something about it after all; and, while we weretumbling about anyhow, he sailed gracefully down the steepest slopes. Ishould go straight back to Cricklewood. "

"My dear chap, I've read a _lot_ about it. "

"Then we're quite safe. "

"With all his faults, " said Archie, "and they are many--Samuel is agentleman. He would never take an unfair advantage of us. Hallo, here weare!"

We left the road and made our way across the snow to a little wooden hutwhich Archie had noticed the day before. Here we were to meet Dahliafor lunch; and here, accordingly, we left the rucksack and such garmentsas the heat of the sun suggested. Then, at the top of a long snow-slope, steep at first, more gentle later, we stood and wondered. 

"Who's going first?" said Archie. 

"What do you do?" asked Myra. 

"You don't. It does it for you. "

"But how do you stop?"

"Don't bother about that, dear, " I said. "That will be arranged for youall right. Take two steps to the brink of the hill and pick yourself upat the bottom. Now then, Simpson! Be a man. The lady waits, Samuel. The---- Hallo! Hi! Help!" I cried, as I began to move off slowly. It wastoo late to do anything about it. "Good-bye, " I called. And then thingsmoved more quickly.... 

Very quickly.... 

Suddenly there came a moment when I realized that I wasn't keeping upwith my feet.... 

I shouted to my skis to stop. It was no good. They went on.... 

I decided to stop without them.... 

The ensuing second went by too swiftly for me to understand rightly whathappened. I fancy that, rising from my sitting position and travellingeasily on my head, I caught my skis up again and passed them.... 

Then it was their turn. They overtook me.... 

But I was not to be beaten. Once more I obtained the lead. This time Itook the inside berth, and kept it.... 

There seemed to be a lot more snow than I really wanted.... I struggledbravely with it.... 

And then the earthquake ceased, and suddenly I was in the outer air. Myfirst ski-run, the most glorious run of modern times, was over. 

"Ripping!" I shouted up the hill to them. "But there's rather a nastybump at the bottom, " I added kindly, as I set myself to the impossiblebusiness of getting up.... 

"Jove, " said Archie, coming to rest a few yards off, "that's splendid!"He had fallen in a less striking way than myself, and he got to his feetwithout difficulty. "Why do you pose like that?" he asked, as he pickedup his stick. 

"I'm a fixture, " I announced. "Myra, " I said, as she turned a somersaultand arrived beaming at my side, "I'm here for some time; you'll have tocome out every morning with crumbs for me. In the afternoon you canbring a cheering book and read aloud to your husband. Sometimes I shalldictate little things to you. They will not be my best little things;for this position, with my feet so much higher than my head, is not theone in which inspiration comes to me most readily. The flow of blood tothe brain impairs reflection. But no matter. "

"Are you really stuck?" asked Myra in some anxiety. "I should hate tohave a husband who lived by himself in the snow, " she said thoughtfully. 

"Let us look on the bright side, " said Archie. "The snow will havemelted by April, and he will then be able to return to you. Hallo, here's Thomas! Thomas will probably have some clever idea for restoringthe family credit. "

Thomas got up in a businesslike manner and climbed slowly back to us. 

"Thomas, " I said, "you see the position. Indeed, " I added, "it isobvious. None of the people round me seems inclined--or, it may be, able--to help. There is a feeling that if Myra lives in the hotel alonewhile I remain here--possibly till April--people will talk. You know howready they are. There is also the fact that I have only hired the skisfor three weeks. Also--a minor point, but one that touches merather--that I shall want my hair cut long before March is out. Thomas, imagine me to be a torpedo-destroyer on the Maplin Sands, and tell mewhat on earth to do. "

"Take your skis off. "

"Oh, brilliant!" said Myra. 

"Take my skis off?" I cried. "Never! Is it not my duty to be the last toleave my skis? Can I abandon---- Hallo! is that Dahlia on the sky-line?Hooray, lunch! Archie, take my skis off, there's a good fellow. Wemustn't keep Dahlia waiting. "

III. --A TYPICAL MORNING

"You take lunch out to-day--no?" said Josef, the head-waiter, in hisinvariable formula. 

Myra and I were alone at breakfast, the first down. I was just puttingsome honey on to my seventh roll, and was not really in the mood forlight conversation with Josef about lunch. By the way, I must say Iprefer the good old English breakfast. With eggs and bacon and porridgeyou do know when you want to stop; with rolls and honey you hardlynotice what you are doing, and there seems no reason why you should notgo on for ever. Indeed, once ... But you would never believe me. 

"We take lunch out to-day, _yes_, Josef. Lunch for--let me see----"

"Six?" suggested Myra. 

"What are we all going to do? Archie said something about skating. I'moff that. "

"But whatever we do we must lunch, and it's much nicer outdoors. Six, Josef. "

Josef nodded and retired. I took my eighth roll. 

"Do let's get off quickly to-day, " I said. "There's always so much chatin the morning before we start. "

"I've just got one swift letter to write, " said Myra, as she got up, "and then I shall be pawing the ground. "

Half an hour later I was in the lounge, booted, capped, gloved, andputteed--the complete St. Bernard. The lounge seemed to be entirely fullof hot air and entirely empty of anybody I knew. I asked for letters;and, getting none, went out and looked at the thermometer. To mysurprise I discovered that there were thirty-seven degrees of frost. Alittle alarmed, I tapped the thing impatiently. "Come, come, " I said, "this is not the time for persiflage. " However, it insisted on remainingat five degrees below zero. What I should have done about it I cannotsay, but at that moment I remembered that it was a Centigradethermometer with the freezing point in the wrong place. Slightlydisappointed that there were only five degrees of frost (Centigrade) Ireturned to the lounge. 

"Here you are at last, " said Archie impatiently. "What are we all goingto do?"

"Where's Dahlia?" asked Myra. "Let's wait till she comes and then we canall talk at once. "

"Here she is. Dahlia, for Heaven's sake come and tell us thearrangements for the day. Start with the idea fixed in your mind thatMyra and I have ordered lunch for six. "

Dahlia shepherded us to a quiet corner of the lounge and we all satdown. 

"By the way, " said Simpson, "are there any letters for me?"

"No; it's your turn to write, " said Archie. 

"But, my dear chap, there _must_ be one, because----"

"But you never acknowledged the bed-socks, " I pointed out. "She can'twrite till you---- I mean, it was rather forward of her to send them atall; and if you haven't even----"

"Well, " said Dahlia, "what does anybody want to do?"

Thomas was the first to answer the question. A girl in red came in fromthe breakfast-room and sat down near us. She looked up in our directionand met Thomas's eye. 

"Good morning, " said Thomas, with a smile, and he left us and movedacross to her. 

"That's the girl he danced with all last night, " whispered Myra. "Ican't think what's come over him. Is this our reserved Thomas--Thomasthe taciturn, whom we know and love so well? I don't like the way shedoes her hair. "

"She's a Miss Aylwyn, " said Simpson in a loud voice. "I had one dancewith her myself. "

"The world, " said Archie, "is full of people with whom Samuel has hadone dance. "

"Well, that washes Thomas out, anyway. He'll spend the day teaching hersomething. What are the rest of us going to do?"

There was a moment's silence. 

"Oh, Archie, " said Dahlia, "did you get those nails put in my boots?"

I looked at Myra ... And sighed. 

"Sorry, dear, " he said. "I'll take them down now. The man will do themin twenty minutes. " He walked over to the lift at the same moment thatThomas returned to us. 

"I say, " began Thomas, a little awkwardly, "if you're arranging what todo, don't bother about me. I rather thought of--er--taking it quietlythis morning. I think I overdid it a bit yesterday. "

"We warned you at the time about the fourth hard-boiled egg, " I said. 

"I meant the ski-ing. We thought of--I thought of having lunch in thehotel, but, of course, you can have my rucksack to carry yours in. Er--I'll go and put it in for you. "

He disappeared rather sheepishly in the direction of the dining-room. 

"Now, Samuel, " said Myra gently. 

"Now what, Myra?"

"It's your turn. If you have a headache, tell us her name. "

"My dear Myra, I want to ski to-day. Where shall we go? Let's go to theold slopes and practise the Christiania Turn. "

"What you want to practise is the ordinary Hampstead Straight, " I said. "A medium performance of yours yesterday, Samuel. "

"But, my dear old chap, " he said eagerly, "I told you it was the faultof my skis. They would stick to the snow. Oh, I say, " he added, "thatreminds me. I must go and buy some wax for them. "

He dashed off. I looked at Myra ... And sighed. 

"The nail-man won't be long, " said Archie to Dahlia, on his return. "I'mto call for them in a quarter of an hour. "

"Can't you wear some other boots, Dahlia, or your bedroom slippers orsomething? It's half-past eleven. We really must get off soon. "

"But we haven't settled where we're going yet. "

"Then for 'eving's sake let's do it. Myra and I thought we might go upabove the wood at the back and explore. We can always ski down. It mightbe rather exciting. "

"Remember, " said Dahlia, "I'm not so expert as you are. "

"Of course, " said Myra, "we're the Oberland mixed champions. "

"You know, " said Archie, "I was talking to the man who's doing Dahlia'sboots and he said the snow would be bad for ski-ing to-day. "

"If he talked in French, no doubt you misunderstood him, " I said, alittle annoyed. "He was probably asking you to buy a pair of skates. "

"Talking about that, " said Archie, "why shouldn't we skate this morning, and have lunch at the hotel, and then get the bob out this afternoon?"

"Here you are, " said Thomas, coming up with a heavy rucksack. "Lunch forsix, so you'll have an extra one. "

"I'd forgotten about lunch, " said Archie. "Look here, just talk it overwith Dahlia while I go and see about my skates. I don't suppose Josefwill mind if we do stay in to lunch after all. What about Simpson?"

I looked at Myra ... And sighed. 

"What about him?" I said. 

 . . . . . 

Half an hour later two exhausted people--one of them with lunch for sixon his back--began the ascent to the wood, trailing their skis behindthem. 

"Another moment, " said Myra, "and I should have screamed. "

IV. --THOMAS, AND A TURN

Myra finished her orange, dried her hands daintily on my handkerchief, and spoke her mind. 

"This is the third time, " she said, "that Thomas has given us the slip. If he gets engaged to that girl in red I shall cry. "

"There are, " I said, idly throwing a crust at Simpson and missing him, "engagements and Swiss engagements--just as there are measles and Germanmeasles. It is well known that Swiss engagements don't count. "

"_We_ got engaged in Kent. A bit of luck. "

"I have nothing against Miss Aylwyn----" I went on. 

"Except the way she does her hair. "

"--but she doesn't strike me as being the essential Rabbit. We cannotadmit her to the--er--fold. "

"The covey, " suggested Myra. 

"The warren. Anyhow, she---- Simpson, for goodness' sake stop foolingabout with your bearded friend and tell us what you think of it all. "

We were finishing lunch in the lee of a little chalet, high above thehotel, and Simpson had picked up an acquaintance with a goat, which hewas apparently trying to conciliate with a piece of chocolate. The goat, however, seemed to want a piece of Simpson. 

"My dear old chap, he won't go away. Here--shoo! shoo! I wish I knewwhat his name was. "

"Ernest, " said Myra. 

"I can't think why you ever got into such a hirsute set, Simpson. Heprobably wants your compass. Give it to him and let him withdraw. "

Ernest, having decided that Simpson was not worth knowing, withdrew, andwe resumed our conversation. 

"When we elderly married folk have retired, " I went on, "and you gayyoung bachelors sit up over a last cigar to discuss your conquests, hasnot Thomas unbent to you, Samuel, and told you of his hopes and fears?"

"He told me last night he was afraid he was going bald, and he said hehoped he wasn't. "

"That's a bad sign, " said Myra. "What did you say?"

"I said I thought he was. "

With some difficulty I got up from my seat in the snow and buckled on myskis. 

"Come on, let's forget Thomas for a bit. Samuel is now going to show usthe Christiania Turn. "

Simpson, all eagerness, began to prepare himself. 

"I said I would, didn't I? I was doing it quite well yesterday. This isa perfect little slope for it. You understand the theory of it, don'tyou?"

"We hope to after the exhibition. "

"Well, the great thing is to lean the opposite way to the way you thinkyou ought to lean. That's what's so difficult. "

"You understand, Myra? Samuel will lean the opposite way to what hethinks he ought to lean. Tell Ernest. "

"But suppose you think you ought to lean the _proper_ way, the way theydo in Christiania, " said Myra, "and you lean the opposite way, then whathappens?"

"That is what Samuel will probably show us, " I said. 

Simpson was now ready. 

"I am going to turn to the left, " he said. "Watch carefully. Of course, I may not bring it off the first time. "

"I can't help thinking you will, " said Myra. 

"It depends what you call bringing it off, " I said. "We have every hopeof--I mean we don't think our money will be wasted. Have you got theopera-glasses and the peppermints and the programme, darling? Then youmay begin, Samuel. "

Simpson started down the slope a little unsteadily. For one moment Ifeared that there might be an accident before the real accident, but herecovered himself nobly and sped to the bottom. Then a cloud of snowshot up, and for quite a long time there was no Simpson. 

"I knew he wouldn't disappoint us, " gurgled Myra. 

We slid down to him and helped him up. 

"You see the idea, " he said. "I'm afraid I spoilt it a little at thatend, but----"

"My dear Samuel, you improved it out of all knowledge. "

"But that actually _is_ the Christiania Turn. "

"Oh, _why_ don't we live in Christiania?" exclaimed Myra to me. "Couldn't we possibly afford it?"

"It must be a happy town, " I agreed. "How the old streets must ring andring again with jovial laughter. "

"Shall I do it once more?"

"_Can_ you?" said Myra, clasping her hands eagerly. 

"Wait here, " said Samuel, "and I'll do it quite close to you. "

Myra unstrapped her camera. 

Half an hour later, with several excellent films of the scene of thecatastrophe, we started for home. It was more than a little steep, butthe run down was accomplished without any serious trouble. Simpson wentfirst to discover any hidden ditches (and to his credit be it said thathe invariably discovered them); Myra, in the position of safety in themiddle, profited by Samuel's frequent object-lessons; while I, at theback, was ready to help Myra up, if need arose, or to repel anyavalanche which descended on us from above. On the level snow at thebottom we became more companionable. 

"We still haven't settled the great Thomas question, " said Myra. "Whatabout to-morrow?"

"Why bother about to-morrow? _Carpe diem. _ Latin. "

"But the great tailing expedition is for to-morrow. The horses areordered; everything is prepared. Only one thing remains to settle. Shallwe have with us a grumpy but Aylwynless Thomas, or shall we let himbring her and spoil the party?"

"She can't spoil the party. I'm here to enjoy myself, and all Thomas's_fiancées_ can't stop me. Let's have Thomas happy, anyway. "

"She's really quite a nice girl, " said Simpson. "I danced with heronce. "

"Right-o, then. I'll tell Dahlia to invite her. "

We hurried on to the hotel; but as we passed the rink the Presidentstopped me for a chat. He wanted me to recite at a concert that evening. Basely deserted by Myra and Samuel, I told him that I did not recite;and I took the opportunity of adding that personally I didn't thinkanybody else ought to. I had just persuaded him to my point of view whenI noticed Thomas cutting remarkable figures on the ice. He pickedhimself up and skated to the side. 

"Hallo!" he said. "Had a good day?"

"Splendid. What have you been doing?"

"Oh--skating. "

"I say, about this tailing expedition to-morrow----"

"Er--yes, I was just going to talk about that. "

"Well, it's all right. Myra is getting Dahlia to ask her to come withus. "

"Good!" said Thomas, brightening up. 

"You see, we shall only be seven, even with Miss Aylwyn, and----"

"Miss _Aylwyn_?" said Thomas in a hollow voice. 

"Yes, isn't that the name of your friend in red?"

"Oh, _that_ one. Oh, but that's quite--I mean, " he went on hurriedly, "Miss Aylwyn is probably booked up for to-morrow. It's Miss Cardew whois so keen on tailing. That girl in green, you know. "

For a moment I stared at him blankly. Then I left him and dashed afterMyra. 

V. --A TAILING PARTY

The procession prepared to start in the following order:--

(1) A brace of sinister-looking horses. 

(2) Gaspard, the Last of the Bandits; or "Why cause a lot of talk bypushing your rich uncle over the cliff, when you can have him stabbedquietly for one franc fifty?" (If ever I were in any vendetta business Ishould pick Gaspard first. )

(3) A sleigh full of lunch. 

(4) A few well-known ladies and gentlemen (being the cream of the Hôteldes Angéliques) on luges; namely, reading from left to right (which isreally the best method--unless you are translating Hebrew), Simpson, Archie, Dahlia, Myra, me, Miss Cardew, and Thomas. 

While Gaspard was putting the finishing knots to the luges, I addresseda few remarks to Miss Cardew, fearing that she might be feeling a littlelonely amongst us. I said that it was a lovely day, and did she thinkthe snow would hold off till evening? Also had she ever done this sortof thing before? I forget what her answers were. 

Thomas meanwhile was exchanging badinage on the hotel steps with MissAylwyn. There must be something peculiar in the Swiss air, for inEngland Thomas is quite a respectable man ... And a godfather. 

"I suppose we _have_ asked the right one, " said Myra doubtfully. 

"His young affections are divided. There was a third girl in pink withwhom he breakfasted a lot this morning. It is the old tradition of thesea, you know. A sailor--I mean an Admiralty civilian has a wife atevery wireless station. "

"Take your seats, please, " said Archie. "The horses are sick ofwaiting. "

We sat down. Archie took Dahlia's feet on his lap, Myra took mine, MissCardew took Thomas's. Simpson, alone in front, nursed a guide-book. 

"_En avant!_" cried Simpson in his best French-taught-in-twelve-lessonsaccent. 

Gaspard muttered an oath to his animals. They pulled bravely. The ropesnapped--and they trotted gaily down the hill with Gaspard. 

We hurried after them with the luges.... 

"It's a good joke, " said Archie, after this had happened three times, "but, personally, I weary of it. Miss Cardew, I'm afraid we've broughtyou out under false pretences. Thomas didn't explain the thing to youadequately. He gave you to understand that there was more in it thanthis. "

Gaspard, who seemed full of rope, produced a fourth piece and tied aknot that made even Simpson envious. 

"Now, Samuel, " I begged, "do keep the line taut this time. Why do yousuppose we put your apricot suit right in the front? Is it, do yousuppose, for the sunset effects at eleven o'clock in the morning, or isit that you may look after the rope properly?"

"I'm awfully sorry, Miss Cardew, " said Simpson, feeling that somebodyought to apologize for something and knowing that Gaspard wouldn't, "butI expect it will be all right now. "

We settled down again. Once more Gaspard cursed his horses, and oncemore they started off bravely. And this time we went with them. 

"The idea all along, " I explained to Miss Cardew. 

"I rather suspected it, " she said. Apparently she has a suspicious mind. 

After the little descent at the start, we went uphill slowly for acouple of miles, and then more rapidly over the level. We had drivenover the same road in a sleigh, coming from the station, and had beenbitterly cold and extremely bored. Why our present position should be somuch more enjoyable I didn't quite see. 

"It's the expectation of an accident, " said Archie. "At any momentsomebody may fall off. Good. "

"My dear old chap, " said Simpson, turning round to take part in theconversation, "why anybody _should_ fall off----"

We went suddenly round a corner, and quietly and without any fusswhatever Simpson left his luge and rolled on to the track. Luckily anypossibility of a further accident was at once avoided. There was nopanic at all. Archie kicked the body temporarily out of the way; afterwhich Dahlia leant over and pushed it thoughtfully to the side of theroad. Myra warded it off with a leg as she neared it; with both hands Ihelped it into the deep snow from which it had shown a tendency toemerge; Miss Cardew put a foot out at it for safety; and Thomas pattedit gently on the head as the end of the "tail" went past.... 

As soon as we had recovered our powers of speech--all except MissCardew, who was in hysterics--we called upon Gaspard to stop. Heindicated with the back of his neck that it would be dangerous to stopjust then; and it was not until we were at the bottom of the hill, nearly a mile from the place where Simpson left us, that the processionhalted, and gave itself up again to laughter. 

"I hope he is not hurt, " said Dahlia, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

"He wouldn't spoil a good joke like that by getting hurt, " said Myraconfidently. "He's much too much of a sportsman. "

"Why did he do it?" said Thomas. 

"He suddenly remembered he hadn't packed his safety-razor. He's half-wayback to the hotel by now. "

Miss Cardew remained in hysterics. 

Ten minutes later a brilliant sunset was observed approaching from thenorth. A little later it was seen to be a large dish of apricots andcream. 

"He draws near, " said Archie. "Now then, let's be stern with him. "

At twenty yards' range Simpson began to talk. His trot had heated himslightly. 

"I say, " he said excitedly. "You----"

Myra shook her head at him. 

"Not done, Samuel, " she said reproachfully. 

"Not what, Myra? What not----"

"You oughtn't to leave us like that without telling us. "

"After all, " said Archie, "we are all one party, and we are supposed tokeep together. If you prefer to go about by yourself, that's all right;but if we go to the trouble of arranging something for the wholeparty----"

"You might have caused a very nasty accident, " I pointed out. "If youwere in a hurry, you had only to say a word to Gaspard and he would havestopped for you to alight. Now I begin to understand why you keptcutting the rope at the start. "

"You have sent Miss Cardew into hysterics by your conduct, " said Dahlia. 

Miss Cardew gave another peal. Simpson looked at her in dismay. 

"I say, Miss Cardew, I'm most awfully sorry. I really didn't---- I say, Dahlia, " he went on confidentially, "oughtn't we to do something aboutthis? Rub her feet with snow or--I mean, I know there's _something_ youdo when people have hysterics. It's rather serious if they go on. Don'tyou burn feathers under their nose?" He began to feel in his pockets. "Iwonder if Gaspard's got a feather?"

With a great effort Miss Cardew pulled herself together. "It's allright, thank you, " she said in a stifled voice. 

"Then let's get on, " said Archie. 

We resumed our seats once more. Archie took Dahlia's feet on his lap. Myra took mine. Miss Cardew took Thomas's. Simpson clung tight to hisluge with both hands. 

"Right!" cried Archie. 

Gaspard swore at his horses. They pulled bravely. The rope snapped--andthey trotted gaily up the hill with Gaspard. 

We hurried after them with the luges.... 

VI. --A HAPPY ENDING

"For our last night they might at least have had a dance, " said Myra, "even if there was no public presentation. "

"As we had hoped, " I admitted. 

"What is a gymkhana, anyway?" asked Thomas. 

"A few little competitions, " said Archie. "One must cater for thechaperons sometimes. You are all entered for the Hat-making and theFeather-blowing--Dahlia thought it would amuse you. "

"At Cambridge, " I said reminiscently, "I once blew the feather 119 feet7 inches. Unfortunately I stepped outside the circle. My official recordis 2 feet. "

"Did you ever trim a hat at Cambridge?" asked Myra. "Because you've gotto do one for me to-night. "

I had not expected this. My view of the competition had been that _I_should have to provide the face and that _she_ would have to invent somesuitable frame for it. 

"I'm full of ideas, " I lied. 

Nine o'clock found a small row of us prepared to blow the feather. Thepresidential instructions were that we had to race our feather across achalk-line at the end of the room, anybody touching his feather to bedisqualified. 

"In the air or on the floor?" asked Simpson earnestly. 

"Just as you like, " said the President kindly, and came round with thebag. 

I selected Percy with care--a dear little feather about half an inchlong and of a delicate whity-brown colour. I should have known him againanywhere. 

"Go!" said the President. I was rather excited, with the result that myfirst blow was much too powerful for Percy. He shot up to the ceilingand, in spite of all I could do, seemed inclined to stay there. Anxiously I waited below with my mouth open; he came slowly down atlast; and in my eagerness I played my second just a shade too soon. Itmissed him. My third (when I was ready for it) went harmlessly over hishead. A frantic fourth and fifth helped him downwards ... And in anothermoment my beautiful Percy was on the floor. I dropped on my knees andplayed my sixth vigorously. He swirled to the left; I was after him likea shot ... And crashed into Thomas. We rolled over in a heap. 

"Sorry!" we apologized as we got back on to our hands and knees. 

Thomas went on blowing. 

"Where's my feather?" I said. 

Thomas was now two yards ahead, blowing like anything. A terriblesuspicion darted through my mind. 

"Thomas, " I said, "you've got my feather. "

He made no answer. I scrambled after him. 

"That's Percy, " I said. "I should know him anywhere. You're blowingPercy. It's very bad form to blow another man's feather. If it gotabout, you would be cut by the county. Give me back my feather, Thomas. "

"How do you know it's your feather?" he said truculently. "Feathers arejust alike. "

"How do I know?" I asked in amazement. "A feather that I've brought upfrom the egg? Of course I know Percy. " I leant down to him. "_P--percy_, " I whispered. He darted forward a good six inches. "Yousee, " I said, "he knows his name. "

"As a matter of fact, " said Thomas, "his name's _P--paul_. Look, I'llshow you. "

"You needn't bother, Thomas, " I said hastily. "This is mere trifling. I_know_ that's my feather. I remember his profile distinctly. "

"Then where's mine?"

"How do I know? You may have swallowed it. Go away and leave Percy andme to ourselves. You're only spoiling the knees of your trousers bystaying here. "

"Paul and I----" began Thomas. 

He was interrupted by a burst of applause. Dahlia had cajoled herfeather over the line first. Thomas rose and brushed himself. "You can'ave him, " he said. 

"There!" I said, as I picked Percy up and placed him reverently in mywaistcoat pocket. "That shows that he was mine. If he had been your ownlittle Paul you would have loved him even in defeat. Oh, musical chairsnow? Right-o. " And at the President's touch I retired from the arena. 

We had not entered for musical chairs. Personally I should have likedto, but it was felt that, if none of us did, then it would be more easyto stop Simpson doing so. For at musical chairs Simpson is--I am afraidthere is only one word for it; it is a word that I hesitate to use, butthe truth must prevail--Simpson is _rough_. He _lets himself go_. Heplays _all he knows_. Whenever I take Simpson out anywhere I alwayswhisper to my hostess, "_Not_ musical chairs. "

The last event of the evening was the hat-making competition. Each manof us was provided with five large sheets of coloured crinkly paper, apacket of pins, a pair of scissors, and a lady opposite to him. 

"Have you any plans at all?" asked Myra. 

"Heaps. Tell me, what sort of hat would you like? Something for thePark?" I doubled up a piece of blue paper and looked at it. "You know, if this is a success, Myra, I shall often make your hats for you. "

Five minutes later I had what I believe is called a "foundation. "Anyhow, it was something for Myra to put her head into. 

"Our very latest Bond Street model, " said Myra. "Only fifteenguineas--or three-and-ninepence if you buy it at our other establishmentin Battersea. "

"Now then, I can get going, " I said, and I began to cut out a whitefeather. "Yes, your ladyship, this is from the genuine bird on our ownostrich farm in the Fulham Road. Plucked while the ingenuous biped hadits head in the sand. I shall put that round the brim, " and I pinned itround. 

"What about a few roses?" said Myra, fingering the red paper. 

"The roses are going there on the right. " I pinned them on. "And ahumming-bird and some violets next to them.... I say, I've got a lot ofpaper over. What about a nice piece of cabbage ... There ... And a bunchof asparagus ... And some tomatoes and a seagull's wing on the left. Theback still looks rather bare--let's have some poppies. "

"There's only three minutes more, " said Myra, "and you haven't used allthe paper yet. "

"I've got about one William Allan Richardson and a couple of canariesover, " I said, after examining my stock. "Let's put it inside as lining. There, Myra, my dear, I'm proud of you. I always say that in a nicequiet hat nobody looks prettier than you. "

"Time!" said the President. 

Anxious matrons prowled round us. 

"We don't know any of the judges, " I whispered. "This isn't fair. "

The matrons conferred with the President. He cleared his throat. "Thefirst prize, " he said, "goes to----"

But I had swooned. 

 . . . . . 

"Well, " said Archie, "the Rabbits return to England with two cups won onthe snowfields of Switzerland. "

"Nobody need know, " said Myra, "_which_ winter-sport they were won at. "

"Unless I have 'Ski-ing, First Prize' engraved on mine, " I said, "as Ihad rather intended. "

"Then I shall have 'Figure-Skating' on mine, " said Dahlia. 

"Two cups, " reflected Archie, "and Thomas engaged to three charminggirls. I think it has been worth it, you know. "

A BAKER'S DOZEN

A TRAGEDY IN LITTLE

The great question of the day is, What will become of Sidney? Whenever Ithink of him now, the unbidden tear wells into my eye ... And wells downmy cheek ... And wells on to my collar. My friends think I have a cold, and offer me lozenges; but it is Sidney who makes me weep. I fear that Iam about to lose him. 

He came into my life in the following way. 

Some months ago I wanted to buy some silk stockings; not for myself, forI seldom wear them, but for a sister. The idea came suddenly to me thatany woman with a brother and a birthday would simply love the one togive her silk stockings for the other. But, of course, they would haveto be the right silk stockings--the fashionable shape for the year, thecorrect assortment of clocks, and so forth. Then as to material--could Ibe sure I was getting silk, and not silkette or something inferior? Howmaddening if, seeing that I was an unprotected man, they palmed offJaeger on me! Clearly this was a case for outside assistance. So Icalled in Celia. 

"This, " I said to her, "is practically the only subject on which I amnot an expert. At the same time I have a distinct feeling for silkstockings. If you can hurry me past all the embarrassing counterssafely, and arrange for the lady behind the right one to show me theright line in silken hose, I will undertake to pick out half a dozenpairs that would melt any sister's heart. "

Well, the affair went off perfectly. Celia took the matter into her ownhands and behaved just as if I were buying them for _her_. Theshop-assistant also behaved as if I were. Fortunately I kept my headwhen it came to giving the name and address. "No, " I said firmly toCelia. "Not yours; my sister's. " And I dragged her away to tea. 

Now whether it was because Celia had particularly enjoyed her afternoon;or because she felt that a man who was as ignorant as I about silkstockings must lead a very lonely life; or because I had mentionedcasually and erroneously that it was my own birthday that week, I cannotsay; but on the following morning I received a little box, with a noteon the outside which said in her handwriting, "Something for you. Bekind to him. " And I opened it and found Sidney. 

He was a Japanese dwarf-tree--the merest boy. At eighty or ninety, according to the photographs, he would be a stalwart fellow with thickbark on his trunk, and fir-cones or acorns (or whatever was hisspeciality) hanging all over him. Just at present he was barely ten. Ihad only eighty years to wait before he reached his prime. 

Naturally I decided to lavish all my care upon his upbringing. I wouldwater him after breakfast every morning, and (when I remembered it) atnight. If there was any top-dressing he particularly fancied, he shouldhave it. If he had any dead leaves to snip off, I would snip them. 

It was at this moment that I discovered something else in the box--acard of instructions. I have not got it now, and I have forgotten theactual wording, but the spirit of it was this:

 HINTS ON THE PROPER REARING AND BRINGING-UP OF A JAPANESE DWARF-TREE

 The life of this tree is a precarious one, and if it is to be successfully brought to manhood the following rules must be carefully observed--

 I. This tree requires, above all else, fresh air and exercise. 

 II. Whenever the sun is shining, the tree should be placed outside, in a position where it can absorb the rays. 

 III. Whenever the rain is raining, it should be placed outside, in a position where it can absorb the wet. 

 IV. It should be taken out for a trot at least once every day. 

 V. It simply loathes artificial light and artificial heat. If you keep it in your drawing-room, see that it is situated as far as possible from the chandelier and the gas-stove. 

 VI. It also detests noise. Do not place it on the top of the pianola. 

 VII. It loves moonlight. Leave it outside when you go to bed, in case the moon should come out. 

 VIII. On the other hand, it hates lightning. Cover it up with the canary's cloth when the lightning begins. 

 IX. If it shows signs of drooping, a course of massage will generally bring it round. 

 X. But in no case offer it buns. 

Well, I read these instructions carefully, and saw at once that I shouldhave to hand over the business of rearing Sidney to another. I have myliving to earn the same as anybody else, and I should never get any workdone at all if I had constantly to be rushing home from the office onthe plea that it was time for Master Sidney's sun-bath. 

So I called up my housekeeper, and placed the matter before her. 

I said: "Let me introduce you to Sidney. He is very dear to me; dearerto me than a--a brother. No, on second thoughts my brother isperhaps--well, anyhow, Sidney is very dear to me. I will show my trustin you by asking you to tend him for me. Here are a few notes about hishealth. Frankly he is delicate. But the doctors have hope. With care, they think, he may live to be a hundred-and-fifty. His future is in yourhands. "

My housekeeper thanked me for this mark of esteem and took the card ofinstructions away with her. I asked her for it a week afterwards and itappeared that, having committed the rules to memory, she had lost it. But that she follows the instructions I have no doubt; and certainly sheand Sidney understand each other's ways exactly. Automatically she giveshim his bath, his massage, his run in the park. When it rains or snowsor shines, she knows exactly what to do with Sidney. 

But as a consequence I see little of him. I suppose it must always beso; we parents must make these sacrifices for our children. Think of amother only seeing her eldest-born for fifteen weeks a year through thelong period of his schooling; and think of me, doomed to catch only themost casual glimpses of Sidney until he is ninety. 

For, you know, I might almost say that I never see him at all now. As Igo to my work I may, if I am lucky, get a fleeting glance of him on thetiles, where he sits drinking in the rain or sun. In the evening, when Ireturn, he is either out in the moonlight or, if indoors, shunning theartificial light with the cloth over his head. Indeed, the only timeswhen I really see him to talk to are when Celia comes to tea with me. Then my housekeeper hurries him in from his walk or his sun-bath, andputs him, brushed and manicured, on my desk; and Celia and I whisperfond nothings to him. I believe Celia thinks he lives there!

 . . . . . 

As I began by saying, I weep for Sidney's approaching end. For myhousekeeper leaves this week. A new one takes her place. How will shetreat my poor Sidney? The old card of instructions is lost; what can Igive her in its place? The legend that Sidney's is a precious life--thathe must have his morning bath, his run, his glass of hot water aftermeals! She would laugh at it. Besides, she may not be at all the sort offoster-mother for a Japanese dwarf-tree.... 

It will break my heart if Sidney dies now, for I had so looked forwardto celebrating his ninetieth birthday with him. It will hurt Celia too. But _her_ grief, of course, will be an inferior affair. In fact, acouple of pairs of silk stockings will help her to forget himaltogether. 

THE FINANCIER. I

This is how I became a West African mining magnate with a stake in theEmpire. 

During February I grew suddenly tired of waiting for the summer tobegin. London in the summer is a pleasant place, and chiefly so becauseyou can keep on buying evening papers to see what Kent is doing. InFebruary life has no such excitements to offer. So I wrote to mysolicitor about it. 

"I want you" (I wrote) "to buy me fifty rubber shares, so that I canwatch them go up and down. " And I added "Brokerage 1/8" to show that Iknew what I was talking about. 

He replied tersely as follows:--

"Don't be a fool. If you have any money to invest I can get you a safemortgage at five per cent. Let me know. "

It's a funny thing how the minds of solicitors run upon mortgages. Ifthey would only stop to think for a moment they would see that youcouldn't possibly watch a safe mortgage go up and down. I left mysolicitor alone and consulted Henry on the subject. In the intervalsbetween golf and golf Henry dabbles in finance. 

"You don't want anything gilt-edged, I gather?" he said. It's wonderfulhow they talk. 

"I want it to go up and down, " I explained patiently, and I indicatedthe required movement with my umbrella. 

"What about a little flutter in oil?" he went on, just like a financierin a novel. 

"I'll have a little flutter in raspberry jam if you like. Anything aslong as I can rush every night for the last edition of the eveningpapers and say now and then, 'Good heavens, I'm ruined. '"

"Then you'd better try a gold-mine, " said Henry bitterly, in the voiceof one who had tried. "Take your choice, " and he threw the paper over tome. 

"I don't want a whole mine--only a vein or two. Yes, this is veryinteresting, " I went on, as I got among the West Africans. "The scoringseems to be pretty low; I suppose it must have been a wet wicket. 'H. E. Reef, 1-3/4, 2'--he did a little better in the second innings. '1/2, Boffin River, 5/16, 7/16'--they followed on, you see, but they saved theinnings defeat. By the way, which figure do I really keep my eye on whenI want to watch them go up and down?"

"Both. One eye on each. And don't talk about Boffin River to me. "

"Is it like that, Henry? I am sorry. I suppose it's too late now tooffer you a safe mortgage at five per cent? I know a man who has some. Well, perhaps you're right. "

On the next day I became a magnate. The Jaguar Mine was the one I fixedupon--for two reasons. First, the figure immediately after it was 1, which struck me as a good point from which to watch it go up and down. Secondly, I met a man at lunch who knew somebody who had actually seenthe Jaguar Mine. 

"He says that there's no doubt about there being lots there. "

"Lots of what? Jaguars or gold?"

"Ah, he didn't say. Perhaps he meant jaguars. "

Anyhow, it was an even chance, and I decided to risk it. In a week'stime I was the owner of what we call in the City a "block" ofJaguars--bought from one Herbert Bellingham, who, I suppose, had beengot at by his solicitor and compelled to return to something safe. Iwas a West African magnate. 

My first two months as a magnate were a great success. With my heart inmy mouth I would tear open the financial editions of the evening papers, to find one day that Jaguars had soared like a rocket to 1-1/16, thenext that they had dropped like a stone to 1-1/32. There was oneterrible afternoon when for some reason which will never be properlyexplained we sank to 15/16. I think the European situation had somethingto do with it, though this naturally is not admitted. Lord Rothschild, Ifancy, suddenly threw all his Jaguars on the market; he sold and soldand sold, and only held his hand when, in desperation, the Tsar grantedthe concession for his new Southend to Siberia railway. Something likethat. But he never recked how the private investor would suffer; andthere was I, sitting at home and sending out madly for all the papers, until my rooms were littered with copies of _The Times_, _The FinancialNews_, _Answers_, _The Feathered World_, and _Home Chat_. Next day wewere up to 31/32, and I was able to breathe again. 

But I had other pleasures than these. Previously I had regarded the Citywith awe, but now I felt a glow of possession come over me whenever Iapproached it. Often in those first two months I used to lean againstthe Mansion House in a familiar sort of way; once I struck a matchagainst the Royal Exchange. And what an impression of financial acumen Icould make in a drawing-room by a careless reference to my "block ofJaguars"! Even those who misunderstood me and thought I spoke of my"flock of jaguars" were startled. Indeed life was very good just then. 

But lately things have not been going well. At the beginning of AprilJaguars settled down at 1-1/16. Though I stood for hours at the clubtape, my hair standing up on end and my eyeballs starting from theirsockets, Jaguars still came through steadily at 1-1/16. To give them achance of doing something, I left them alone for a whole week--with whatagony you can imagine. Then I looked again; a whole week and anythingmight have happened. Pauper or millionaire?--No, still 1-1/16. 

Worse was to follow. Editors actually took to leaving out Jaguarsaltogether. I suppose they were sick of putting 1-1/16 in every edition. But how ridiculous it made my idea seem of watching them go up and down!How blank life became again!

And now what I dreaded most of all has happened. I have received a"Progress Report" from the mine. It gives the "total footage" for themonth, special reference being made to "cross-cutting, winzing, andsinking. " The amount of "tons crushed" is announced. There is serioustalk of "ore" being "extracted"; indeed there has already been a mostalarming "yield in fine gold. " In short, it can no longer be hushed upthat the property may at any moment be "placed on a dividend-payingbasis. "

Probably I shall be getting a safe five per cent!

"Dash it all, " as I said to my solicitor this morning, "I might just aswell have bought a rotten mortgage. "

THE FINANCIER. II

(_Eighteen months later_)

It is nearly two years ago that I began speculating in West Africanmines. You may remember what a stir my entry into the financial worldcreated; how Sir Isaac Isaacstein went mad and shot himself; how SirSamuel Samuelstein went mad and shot his typist; and how Sir MosesMosestein went mad and shot his typewriter, permanently damaging theletter "s. " There was panic in the City on that February day in 1912when I bought Jaguars and set the market rocking. 

I bought Jaguars partly for the rise and partly for the thrill. Indescribing my speculation to you eighteen months ago I dwelt chiefly onthe thrill part; I alleged that I wanted to see them go up and down. Itwould have been more accurate to have said that I wanted to see them goup. It was because I was sure they were going up that, with the unitedsupport of my solicitor, my stockbroker, my land agent, my doctor, myarchitect and my vicar (most of them hired for the occasion), I boughtfifty shares in the Jaguar mine of West Africa. 

When I bought Jaguars they were at 1--1-1/16. This means that---- No, onsecond thoughts I won't. There was a time when, in the pride of my newknowledge, I should have insisted on explaining to you what it meant, but I am getting _blasé_ now; besides, you probably know. It is enoughthat I bought them, and bought them on the distinct understanding frommy financial adviser that by the end of the month they would be up to 2. In that case I should have made rather more than forty pounds in a fewdays, simply by assembling together my solicitor, stockbroker, land-agent, etc. , etc. , in London, and without going to West Africa atall. A wonderful thought. 

At the end of a month Jaguars were steady at 1-1/16; and I had receiveda report from the mine to the effect that down below they were simplyhacking gold out as fast as they could hack, and up at the top were verybusy rinsing and washing and sponging and drying it. The next month thesituation was the same: Jaguars in London very steady at 1-1/16, Jaguardiggers in West Africa very steady at gold-digging. And at the end ofthe third month I realized not only that I was not going to have anythrills at all, but (even worse) that I was not going to make any moneyat all. I had been deceived. 

 . . . . . 

That was where, eighteen months ago, I left the story of my City life. Agood deal has happened since then; as a result of which I am once moreeagerly watching the price of Jaguars. 

A month or two after I had written about them, Jaguars began to go down. They did it (as they have done everything since I have known them)stupidly. If they had dropped in a single night to 3/4, I should atleast have had my thrill. I should have suffered in a single night theloss of some pounds, and I could have borne it dramatically; either withthe sternness of the silent Saxon, or else with the volubility of thevolatile--I can't think of anybody beginning with a "V. " But, alas!Jaguars never dropped at all. They subsided. They subsided slowly backto 1--so slowly that you could hardly observe them going. A week laterthey were 63/64, which, of course, is practically the same as 1. A monthafterwards they were 31/32, and it is a debatable point whether that isless or more than 63/64. Anyhow, by the time I had worked it out anddecided that it was slightly less, they were at 61/64, and one had thesame trouble all over again. At 61/64 I left them for a time; and whenI next read the financial column they were at 15/16, which still seemedto be fairly near to 1. And even when at last, after many months, Ifound them down to 7/8 I was not seriously alarmed, but felt that it wasdue to some little local trouble (as that the manager had fallen downthe main shaft and was preventing the gold being shot out properly), andthat, when the obstruction had been removed, Jaguars would go up to 1again. 

But they didn't. They continued to subside. When they had subsided to1/2 I woke up. My dream of financial glory was over. I had lost my moneyand my faith in the City; well, let them go. With an effort I washedJaguars out of my mind. Henceforward they were nothing to me. 

And then, months after, Andrew came on the scene. At lunch one day hehappened to mention that he had been talking to his broker. 

"Do you often talk to your broker?" I asked in admiration. It sounded somagnificent. 

"Often. "

"I haven't got a broker to talk to. When you next chat to yours, I wishyou'd lead the conversation round to Jaguars and see what he says. "

"Why, have you got some?"

"Yes, but they're no good. Have a cigarette, won't you?"

Next morning to my amazement I got a telegram from Andrew. "Can get youten shillings for Jaguars. Wire if you will sell, and how many. "

It was really a shock to me. When I had asked Andrew to mention Jaguarsto his broker it was solely in the hope of hearing some humorous Citycomment on their futility--one of those crisp jests for which the StockExchange is famous. I had no idea that his broker might like to buy themfrom me. 

I wired back: "Sell fifty, quick. "

Next day he told me he had sold them. 

"That's all right, " I said cheerfully; "they're his. He can watch themgo up and down. When do I get my twenty-five pounds?" To savetwenty-five pounds from the wreck was wonderful. 

"Not for a month; and, of course, you don't deliver the shares tillthen. "

"What do you mean, 'deliver the shares'?" I asked in alarm. "I haven'tgot the gold-mine here; it's in Africa or somewhere. Must I go outand----"

"But you've got a certificate for them. "

My heart sank. 

"Have I?" I whispered. "Good Lord, I wonder where it is. "

I went home and looked. I looked for two days; I searched drawers anddesks and letter-books and safes and ice-tanks and trouser-presses--everyplace in which a certificate might hide. It was no good. I went back toAndrew. I was calm. 

"About these Jaguars, " I said casually. "I don't quite understand myposition. What have I promised to do? And can they put me in prison if Idon't do it?"

"You've promised to sell fifty Jaguars to a man called Stevens by themiddle of next month. That's all. "

"I see, " I said, and I went home again. 

And I suppose you see too. I've got to sell fifty Jaguars to a mancalled Stevens by the middle of next month. Although I really have fiftyfully matured ones of my own, there's nothing to prove it, and they areso suspicious in the City that they will never take my bare word. So Ishall have to buy fifty new Jaguars for this man called Stevens--and buythem by the middle of next month. 

And this is why I am still eagerly watching the price of Jaguars. Yesterday they were 5/8. I am hoping that by the middle of next monththey will be down to 1/2 again. But I find it difficult to remembersometimes which way I want them to go. This afternoon, for instance, when I saw they had risen to 11/16 I was quite excited for a moment; Iwent out and bought some cigars on the strength of it. Then Iremembered; and I came home and almost decided to sell the pianola. Itis very confusing. You must see how very confusing it is. 

THE DOUBLE

I was having lunch in one of those places where you stand and eatsandwiches until you are tired, and then try to count up how many youhave had. As the charm of these sandwiches is that they all tasteexactly alike, it is difficult to recall each individual as it wentdown; one feels, too, after the last sandwich, that one's mind wouldmore willingly dwell upon other matters. Personally I detest the wholebusiness--the place, the sandwiches, the method of scoring--but it isconvenient and quick, and I cannot keep away. On this afternoon I wasgiving the _foie gras_ plate a turn. I know a man who will never touch_foie gras_ because of the cruelty involved in the preparation of it. Iexcuse myself on the ground that my own sufferings in eating thesesandwiches are much greater than those of any goose in providing them. 

There was a grey-haired man in the corner who kept looking at me. Iseemed to myself to be behaving with sufficient propriety, and there wasnothing in my clothes or appearance to invite comment; for in theworking quarter of London a high standard of beauty is not insistedupon. On the next occasion when I caught his eye I frowned at him, and amoment later I found myself trying to stare him down. After two minutesit was I who retired in confusion to my glass. 

As I prepared to go--for to be watched at meals makes me nervous, andleads me sometimes to eat the card with "Foie Gras" on it in mistake forthe sandwich--he came up to me and raised his hat. 

"You must excuse me, sir, for staring at you, " he said, "but has anyone ever told you that you are exactly like A. E. Barrett?"

I drew myself up and rested my left hand lightly on my hip. I thought hesaid David Garrick. 

"The very image of him, " he went on, "when first I met him. "

Something told me that in spite of his grey hair he was not talking ofDavid Garrick after all. 

"Like _who?_" I said in some disappointment. 

"A. E. Barrett. "

I tried to think of a reply, both graceful and witty. The only one Icould think of was, "Oh?"

"It's extraordinary. If your hair were just a little longer the likenesswould be perfect. "

I thought of offering to go away now and come back in a month's time. Anyway, it would be an excuse for going now. 

"I first knew him at Cambridge, " he explained. "We were up together inthe 'seventies. "

"Ah, I was up in the nineteen hundreds, " I said. "I just missed youboth. "

"Well, didn't they ever tell you at Cambridge that you were the image ofA. E. Barrett?"

I tried to think. They had told me lots of things at Cambridge, but Icouldn't remember any talk about A. E. Barrett. 

"I should have thought every one would have noticed it, " he said. 

I had something graceful for him this time all right. 

"Probably, " I said, "those who were unfortunate enough to know me hadnot the honour of knowing A. E. Barrett. "

"But everybody knew A. E. Barrett. _You've_ heard of him, of course?"

The dreadful moment had arrived. I knew it would. 

"Of course, " I said. 

"A charming fellow. "

"Very brainy, " I agreed. 

"Well, just ask any of your artist friends if they don't notice thelikeness. The nose, the eyes, the expression--wonderful! But I must begoing. Perhaps I shall see you here again some day. Good afternoon"; andhe raised his hat and left me. 

You can understand that I was considerably disturbed. First, why had Inever heard of A. E. Barrett? Secondly, what sort of looking fellow washe? Thirdly, with all this talk about A. E. Barrett, however manysandwiches had I eaten? The last question seemed the most impossible toanswer, so I said "eight, " to be on the safe side, and went back towork. 

In the evening I called upon Peter. My acquaintance of the afternoon hadassumed too readily that I should allow myself to be on friendly termswith artists; but Peter's wife illustrates books, and they both talk ina disparaging way of our greatest Academicians. 

"Who, " I began at once, as I shook hands, "did I remind you of as I camein at the door?"

Peter was silent. Mrs. Peter, feeling that some answer was called for, said, "The cat. "

"No, no. Now I'll come in again. " I went out and returned dramatically. "Now then, tell me frankly, doesn't that remind you of A. E. Barrettentering his studio?"

"Who is A. E. Barrett?"

I was amazed at their ignorance. 

"He's the well-known artist. _Surely_ you've heard of him?"

"I seem to know the name, " lied Peter. "What did he paint?"

"'Sunrise on the Alps, ' 'A Corner of the West, ' 'The Long DayWanes'--_I_ don't know. Something. The usual thing. "

"And are you supposed to be like him?"

"I am. Particularly when eating sandwiches. "

"Is it worth while getting you some, in order to observe the likeness?"asked Mrs. Peter. 

"If you've never seen A. E. Barrett I fear you'd miss the likeness, evenin the most favourable circumstances. Anyhow, you must have heard ofhim--dear old A. E. !"

They were utterly ignorant of him, so I sat down and told them what Iknew; which, put shortly, was that he was a very remarkable-lookingfellow. 

 . . . . . 

I have not been to the sandwich-place since. Detesting the sandwiches asI do, I find A. E. Barrett a good excuse for keeping away. For, upon theday after that when he came into my life, I had a sudden cold fear thatthe thing was a plant. How, in what way, I cannot imagine. That I am tobe sold a _Guide to Cambridge_ at the next meeting; that an A. E. Barrett hair-restorer is about to be placed on the market; that an offerwill be made to enlarge my photograph (or Barrett's) free of charge if Ibuy the frame--no, I cannot think what it can be. 

Yet, after all, why should it be a plant? We Barretts are not the sortof men to be mixed up with fraud. Impetuous the Barrett type may be, obstinate, jealous--so much you see in our features. But dishonest?Never!

Still, as I did honestly detest those last eight sandwiches, I shallstay away. 

A BREATH OF LIFE

This is the story of a comedy which nearly became a tragedy. In its wayit is rather a pathetic story. 

The comedy was called _The Wooing of Winifred_. It was written by anauthor whose name I forget; produced by the well-known and (as hispress-agent has often told us) popular actor-manager, Mr. Levinski; andplayed by (among others) that very charming young man, ProsperVane--known locally as Alfred Briggs until he took to the stage. Prosperplayed the young hero, _Dick Seaton_, who was actually wooing_Winifred_. Mr. Levinski himself took the part of a middle-aged man ofthe world with a slight _embonpoint_; down in the programme as _SirGeoffrey Throssell_ but fortunately still Mr. Levinski. His openingwords, as he came on, were, "Ah, Dick, I have a note for you somewhere, "which gave the audience an interval in which to welcome him, while hefelt in all his pockets for the letter. One can bow quite easily whilefeeling in one's pockets, and it is much more natural than stopping inthe middle of an important speech in order to acknowledge any cheers. The realization of this, by a dramatist, is what is called "stagecraft. "In this case the audience could tell at once that the "technique" of theauthor (whose name unfortunately I forget) was going to be all right. 

But perhaps I had better describe the whole play as shortly as possible. The theme--as one guessed from the title, even before the curtainrose--was the wooing of _Winifred_. In the First Act _Dick_ proposed to_Winifred_ and was refused by her, not from lack of love, but for fearlest she might spoil his career, he being one of those big-hearted menwith a hip-pocket to whom the open spaces of the world call loudly;whereupon Mr. Levinski took _Winifred_ on one side and told the audiencehow, when _he_ had been a young man, some good woman had refused _him_for a similar reason and had been miserable ever since. Accordingly inthe Second Act _Winifred_ withdrew her refusal and offered to marry_Dick_, who declined to take advantage of her offer for fear that shewas willing to marry him from pity rather than from love; whereupon Mr. Levinski took _Dick_ on one side and told the audience how, when _he_had been a young man, he had refused to marry some good woman (adifferent one) for a similar reason, and had been broken-hearted everafterwards. In the Third Act it really seemed as though they were comingtogether at last; for at the beginning of it Mr. Levinski took them bothaside and told the audience a parable about a butterfly and asnap-dragon, which was both pretty and helpful, and caused severalmiddle-aged ladies in the first and second rows of the upper circle tosay, "What a nice man Mr. Levinski must be at home, dear!"--the purportof the allegory being to show that both _Dick_ and _Winifred_ were beingvery silly, as indeed by this time everybody but the author was aware. Unfortunately at that moment a footman entered with a telegram for _MissWinifred_, which announced that she had been left fifty thousand poundsby a dead uncle in Australia; and, although Mr. Levinski seized thisfresh opportunity to tell the audience how in similar circumstancesPride, to his lasting remorse, had kept _him_ and some good woman (athird one) apart, nevertheless _Dick_ held back once more, for fear lesthe should be thought to be marrying her for her money. The curtain comesdown as he says, "Good-bye ... Good ber-eye. " But there is a FourthAct, and in the Fourth Act Mr. Levinski has a splendid time. He tellsthe audience two parables--one about a dahlia and a sheep, which Icouldn't quite follow--and three reminiscences of life in India; hebrings together finally and for ever these hesitating lovers; and, bestof all, he has a magnificent love-scene of his own with a pretty widow, in which we see, for the first time in the play, how love should reallybe made--not boy-and-girl pretty-pretty love, but the deep emotion felt(and with occasional lapses of memory explained) by a middle-aged manwith a slight _embonpoint_ who has knocked about the world a bit andknows life. Mr. Levinski, I need not say, was at his best in this Act. 

 . . . . . 

I met Prosper Vane at the club some ten days before the first night, andasked him how rehearsals were going. 

"Oh, all right, " he said. "But it's a rotten play. I've got such adashed silly part. "

"From what you told me, " I said, "it sounded rather good. "

"It's so dashed unnatural. For three whole acts this girl and I are inlove with each other, and we know we're in love with each other, and yetwe simply fool about. She's a dashed pretty girl, too, my boy. In reallife I'd jolly soon----"

"My dear Alfred, " I protested, "you're not going to fall in love withthe girl you have to fall in love with on the stage? I thought actorsnever did that. "

"They do sometimes; it's a dashed good advertisement. Anyway, it's asilly part, and I'm fed up with it. "

"Yes, but do be reasonable. If _Dick_ got engaged at once to _Winifred_what would happen to Levinski? He'd have nothing to do. "

Prosper Vane grunted. As he seemed disinclined for further conversationI left him. 

 . . . . . 

The opening night came, and the usual distinguished and fashionableaudience (including myself), such as habitually attends Mr. Levinski'sfirst nights, settled down to enjoy itself. Two acts went well. At theend of each Mr. Levinski came before the curtain and bowed to us, and wehad the honour of clapping him loud and long. Then the Third Actbegan.... 

Now this is how the Third Act ends:--

 _Exit_ Sir Geoffrey. 

 _Winifred (breaking the silence). _ Dick, you heard what he said. Don't let this silly money come between us. I have told you I love you, dear. Won't you--won't you speak to me?

 _Dick. _ Winifred, I---- (_He gets up and walks round the room, his brow knotted, his right fist occasionally striking his left palm. Finally he comes to a stand in front of her. _) Winifred, I---- (_He raises his arms slowly at right angles to his body and lets them fall heavily down again. _) I can't. (_In a low, hoarse voice_) I--can't! (_He stands for a moment with bent head; then with a jerk he pulls himself together. _) Good-bye! (_His hands go out to her, but he draws them back as if frightened to touch her. Nobly_) Good ber-eye. 

 [_He squares his shoulders and stands looking at the audience with his chin in the air; then with a shrug of utter despair, which would bring tears into the eyes of any young thing in the pit, he turns and with bent head walks slowly out. _

 CURTAIN. 

That _is_ how the Third Act ends. I went to the dress rehearsal, and soI know. 

How the accident happened I do not know. I suppose Prosper was nervous;I am sure he was very much in love. Anyhow, this is how, on that famousfirst night, the Third Act ended:--

 _Exit_ Sir Geoffrey. 

 _Winifred_ (_breaking the silence_). Dick, you heard what he said. Don't let this silly money come between us. I have told you I love you, dear. Won't you--won't you speak to me?

 _Dick_ (_jumping up_). Winifred, I---- (_with a great gulp_) I LOVE YOU!!!

Whereupon he picked her up in his arms and carried her triumphantly offthe stage ... And after a little natural hesitation the curtain camedown. 

 . . . . . 

Behind the scenes all was consternation. Mr. Levinski (absolutelyfurious) had a hasty consultation with the author (also furious), in thecourse of which they both saw that the Fourth Act as written was now animpossibility. Poor Prosper, who had almost immediately recovered hissanity, tremblingly suggested that Mr. Levinski should announce that, owing to the sudden illness of Mr. Vane, the Fourth Act could not begiven. Mr. Levinski was kind enough to consider this suggestion notentirely stupid; his own idea having been (very regretfully) to leaveout the two parables and three reminiscences from India and concentrateon the love-scene with the widow. 

"Yes, yes, " he said. "Your plan is better. I will say you are ill. It istrue; you are mad. To-morrow we will play it as it was written. "

"You can't, " said the author gloomily. "The critics won't come till theFourth Act, and they'll assume that the Third Act ended as it didto-night. The Fourth Act will seem all nonsense to them. "

"True. And I was so good, so much myself, in that Act. " He turned toProsper. "You--fool!"

"Or there's another way, " began the author. "We might----"

And then a gentleman in the gallery settled it from the front of thecurtain. There was nothing in the programme to show that the play was infour acts. "The Time is the present day and the Scene is in Sir GeoffreyThrossell's town-house, " was all it said. And the gentleman in thegallery, thinking it was all over, and being pleased with the play andparticularly with the realism of the last moment of it, shouted"_Author!_" And suddenly everybody else cried "_Author! Author!_" Theplay was ended. 

 . . . . . 

I said that this was the story of a comedy which nearly became atragedy. But it turned out to be no tragedy at all. In the three acts towhich Prosper Vane had condemned it the play appealed to both criticsand public; for the Fourth Act (as he recognised so clearly) wasunnecessary, and would have spoilt the balance of it entirely. Best ofall, the shortening of the play demanded that some entertainment shouldbe provided in front of it, and this enabled Mr. Levinski to introduceto the public Professor Wollabollacolla and Princess Collabollawolla, the famous exponents of the Bongo-Bongo, that fascinating CentralAfrican war dance which was soon to be the rage of society. But though, as a result, the takings of the Box Office surpassed all Mr. Levinski'sprevious records, our friend Prosper Vane received no practicalacknowledgment of his services. He had to be content with the hand andheart of the lady who played _Winifred_, and the fact that Mr. Levinskiwas good enough to attend the wedding. There was, in fact, a photographin all the papers of Mr. Levinski doing it. 

"UNDER ENTIRELY NEW MANAGEMENT"

I know a fool of a dog who pretends that he is a Cocker Spaniel, and isconvinced that the world revolves round him wonderingly. The sun risesso it may shine on his glossy morning coat; it sets so his master mayknow that it is time for the evening biscuit; if the rain falls it isthat a fool of a dog may wipe on his mistress's skirt his muddy boots. His day is always exciting, always full of the same good things; hisnight a repetition of his day, more gloriously developed. If there be asacred moment before the dawn when he lies awake and ponders on life, hetells himself confidently that it will go on for ever like this--a lifeplanned nobly for himself, but one in which the master and mistress whomhe protects must always find a place. And I think perhaps he would wanta place for me, too, in that life, who am not his real master but yetone of the house. I hope he would. 

What Chum doesn't know is this: his master and mistress are leaving him. They are going to a part of the world where a fool of a dog with nomanners is a nuisance. If Chum could see all the good little Londondogs, who at home sit languidly on their mistress's lap, and abroad taketheir view of life through a muff much bigger than themselves; if hecould see the big obedient dogs who walk solemnly through the Parkcarrying their master's stick, never pausing in their impressive marchunless it be to plunge into the Serpentine and rescue a drowning child, he would know what I mean. He would admit that a dog who cannot answerto his own name and pays but little more attention to "Down, idiot, "and "Come here, fool, " is not every place's dog. He would admit it, ifhe had time. But before I could have called his attention to half thegood dogs I had marked out he would have sat down beaming in front of amotor-car ... And then he would never have known what now he will knowso soon--that his master and mistress are leaving him. 

It has been my business to find a new home for him. This is harder thanyou think. I can make him sound lovable, but I cannot make him soundgood. Of course, I might leave out his doubtful qualities, and describehim merely as beautiful and affectionate; I might ... But I couldn't. Ithink Chum's habitual smile would get larger, he would wriggle the endof himself more ecstatically than ever if he heard himself summed up asbeautiful and affectionate. Anyway, I couldn't do it, for I get carriedaway when I speak of him and I reveal all his bad qualities. 

"I am afraid he is a snob, " I confessed to one woman of whom I hadhopes. "He doesn't much care for what he calls the lower classes. "

"Oh?" she said. 

"Yes, he hates badly dressed people. Corduroy trousers tied up at theknee always excite him. I don't know if any of your family--no, Isuppose not. But if he ever sees a man with his trousers tied up at theknee he goes for him. And he can't bear tradespeople; at least not themen. Washerwomen he loves. He rather likes the washing-basket too. Once, when he was left alone with it for a moment, he appeared shortlyafterwards on the lawn with a pair of--well, I mean he had no businesswith them at all. We got them away after a bit of a chase, and then theyhad to go to the wash again. It seemed rather a pity when they'd onlyjust come back. Of course, I smacked his head for him; but he looks sosurprised and reproachful when he's done wrong that you never feel it'squite his fault. "

"I doubt if I shall be able to take him after all, " she said. "I've justremembered----"

I forget what it was she remembered, but it meant that I was stillwithout a new home for Chum. 

"What does he eat?" somebody else asked me. It seemed hopeful; I couldsee Chum already installed. 

"Officially, " I said, "he lives on puppy biscuits; he also has thetoast-crusts after breakfast and an occasional bone. Privately, he isfond of bees. I have seen him eat as many as six bees in an afternoon. Sometimes he wanders down to the kitchen-garden and picks thegooseberries; he likes all fruit, but gooseberries are the things he canreach best. When there aren't any gooseberries about he has to becontent with the hips and haws from the rose-trees. But really youneedn't bother, he can eat anything. The only thing he doesn't like iswhitening. We were just going to mark the lawn one day, and while wewere busy pegging it out he wandered up and drank the whitening out ofthe marker. It is practically the only disappointment he has ever had. He looked at us, and you could see that his opinion of us had gone down. 'What did you _put_ it there for, if you didn't mean me to drink it?' hesaid reproachfully. Then he turned and walked slowly and thoughtfullyback to his kennel. He never came out till next morning. "

"Really?" said my man. "Well, I shall have to think about it. I'll letyou know. "

Of course, I knew what he meant. 

With a third dog-lover to whom I spoke the negotiations came to grief, not apparently because of any fault of Chum's, but because, if you willbelieve it, of my shortcomings. At least I can suppose nothing else. Forthis man had been enthusiastic about him. He had revelled in the tale ofChum's wickedness; he had adored him for being so conceited. He hadpractically said that he would take him. 

"Do, " I begged. "I'm sure he'd be happy with you. You see, he's noteverybody's dog; I mean, I don't want any odd man whom I don't know totake him. It must be a friend of mine, so that I shall often be able tosee Chum afterwards. "

"So that--what?" he asked anxiously. 

"So that I shall often be able to see Chum afterwards. Week-ends, youknow, and so on. I couldn't bear to lose the silly old ass altogether. "

He looked thoughtful; and, when I went on to speak about Chum's fondnessfor chickens, and his other lovable ways, he changed the subjectaltogether. He wrote afterwards that he was sorry he couldn't managewith a third dog. And I like to think he was not afraid of Chum--butonly of me. 

But I have found the right man at last. A day will come soon when Ishall take Chum from his present home to his new one. That will be agreat day for him. I can see him in the train, wiping his bootseffusively on every new passenger, wriggling under the seat and outagain from sheer joy of life; I can see him in the taxi, taking his onebrief impression of a world that means nothing to him; I can see him inanother train, joyous, eager, putting his paws on my collar from time totime and saying excitedly, "_What_ a day this is!" And if he survivesthe journey; if I can keep him on the way from all the delightful deathshe longs to try; if I can get him safely to his new house, then I cansee him----

Well, I wonder. What will they do to him? When I see him again, will hebe a sober little dog, answering to his name, careful to keep his muddyfeet off the visitor's trousers, grown up, obedient, following to heelround the garden, the faithful servant of his master? Or will he be thesame old silly ass, no use to anybody, always dirty, always smiling, always in the way, a clumsy, blundering fool of a dog who knows youcan't help loving him? I wonder.... 

Between ourselves, I don't think they _can_ alter him now.... Oh, I hopethey can't. 

A FAREWELL TOUR

This is positively Chum's last appearance in print--for his own sake noless than for yours. He is conceited enough as it is, but if once he gotto know that people are always writing about him in books his swaggerwould be unbearable. However, I have said good-bye to him now; I have nolonger any rights in him. Yesterday I saw him off to his new home, andwhen we meet again it will be on a different footing. "Is that yourdog?" I shall say to his master. "What is he? A Cocker? Jolly littlefellows, aren't they? I had one myself once. "

As Chum refused to do the journey across London by himself, I met him atLiverpool Street. He came up in a crate; the world must have seemed verysmall to him on the way. "Hallo, old ass, " I said to him through thebars, and in the little space they gave him he wriggled his body withdelight. "Thank Heaven there's _one_ of 'em alive, " he said. 

"I think this is my dog, " I said to the guard, and I told him my name. 

He asked for my card. 

"I'm afraid I haven't one with me, " I explained. When policemen touch meon the shoulder and ask me to go quietly; when I drag old gentlemen fromunderneath motor-'buses, and they decide to adopt me on the spot; on allthe important occasions when one really wants a card, I never have onewith me. 

"Can't give him up without proof of identity, " said the guard, and Chumgrinned at the idea of being thought so valuable. 

I felt in my pockets for letters. There was only one, but it offered tolend me £10, 000 on my note of hand alone. It was addressed to "DearSir, " and though I pointed out to the guard that I was the "Sir, " hestill kept tight hold of Chum. Strange that one man should be preparedto trust me with £10, 000, and another should be so chary of confiding tome a small black spaniel. 

"Tell the gentleman who I am, " I said imploringly through the bars. "Show him you know me. "

"He's _really_ all right, " said Chum, looking at the guard with hisgreat honest brown eyes. "He's been with us for years. "

And then I had an inspiration. I turned down the inside pocket of mycoat; and there, stitched into it, was the label of my tailor with myname written on it. I had often wondered why tailors did this; obviouslythey know how stupid guards can be. 

"I suppose that's all right, " said the guard reluctantly. Of course, Imight have stolen the coat. I see his point. 

"You--you wouldn't like a nice packing-case for yourself?" I saidtimidly. "You see, I thought I'd put Chum on the lead. I've got to takehim to Paddington, and he must be tired of his shell by now. It isn't asif he were _really_ an armadillo. "

The guard thought he would like a shilling and a nice packing-case. Wood, he agreed, was always wood, particularly in winter, but there weretimes when you were not ready for it. 

"How are you taking him?" he asked, getting to work with a chisel. "Underground?"

"Underground?" I cried in horror. "Take Chum on the Underground?Take---- Have you ever taken a large live conger-eel on the end of astring into a crowded carriage?"

The guard never had. 

"Well, don't. Take him in a taxi instead. Don't waste him on otherpeople. "

The crate yawned slowly, and Chum emerged all over straw. We had ananxious moment, but the two of us got him down and put the lead on him. Then Chum and I went off for a taxi. 

"Hooray, " said Chum, wriggling all over, "isn't this splendid? I say, which way are you going? I'm going this way?... No, I mean the otherway. "

Somebody had left some of his milk-cans on the platform. Three times wewent round one in opposite directions and unwound ourselves the wrongway. Then I hauled him in, took him struggling in my arms and got into acab. 

The journey to Paddington was full of interest. For a whole minute Chumstood quietly on the seat, rested his fore-paws on the open window anddrank in London. Then he jumped down and went mad. He tried to hang mewith the lead, and then in remorse tried to hang himself. He made a dashfor the little window at the back; missed it and dived out of the windowat the side; was hauled back and kissed me ecstatically in the eye withhis sharpest tooth.... "And I thought the world was at an end, " he said, "and there were no more people. Oh, I am an ass. I say, did you noticeI'd had my hair cut? How do you like my new trousers? I must show youthem. " He jumped on to my lap. "No, I think you'll see them better onthe ground, " he said, and jumped down again. "Or no, perhaps you _would_get a better view if----" he jumped up hastily, "and yet I don'tknow----" he dived down, "though, of course, if you---- Oh lor! this_is_ a day, " and he put both paws lovingly on my collar. 

Suddenly he was quiet again. The stillness, the absence of storm in thetaxi was so unnatural that I began to miss it. "Buck up, old fool, " Isaid, but he sat motionless by my side, plunged in thought. I tried tocheer him up. I pointed out King's Cross to him; he wouldn't even barkat it. I called his attention to the poster outside the Euston Theatreof The Two Biffs; for all the regard he showed he might never even haveheard of them. The monumental masonry by Portland Road failed to uplifthim. 

At Baker Street he woke up and grinned cheerily. "It's all right, " hesaid, "I was trying to remember what happened to me thismorning--something rather miserable, I thought, but I can't get hold ofit. However, it's all right now. How are _you_?" And he went mad again. 

At Paddington I bought a label at the bookstall and wrote it for him. Hewent round and round my leg looking for me. "Funny thing, " he said as hebegan to unwind, "he was here a moment ago. I'll just go round oncemore. I rather think ... _Ow!_ Oh, there you are!" I stepped off him, unravelled the lead and dragged him to the Parcels Office. 

"I want to send this by the two o'clock train, " I said to the man theother side of the counter. 

"Send what?" he said. 

I looked down. Chum was making himself very small and black in theshadow of the counter. He was completely hidden from the sight ofanybody the other side of it. 

"Come out, " I said, "and show yourself. "

"Not much, " he said. "A parcel! I'm not going to be a jolly old parcelfor anybody. "

"It's only a way of speaking, " I pleaded. "Actually you are travellingas a small black gentleman. You will go with the guard--a delightfulman. "

Chum came out reluctantly. The clerk leant over the counter and managedto see him. 

"According to our regulations, " he said, and I always dislike peoplewho begin like that, "he has to be on a chain. A leather lead won't do. "

Chum smiled all over himself. I don't know which pleased him more--thesuggestion that he was a very large and fierce dog, or the impossibilitynow of his travelling with the guard, delightful man though he might be. He gave himself a shake and started for the door. 

"Tut, tut, it's a great disappointment to me, " he said, trying to lookdisappointed, but his back _would_ wriggle. "This chain business--sillyof us not to have known--well, well, we shall be wiser another time. Nowlet's go home. "

Poor old Chum; I _had_ known. From a large coat pocket I produced achain. 

"_Dash_ it, " said Chum, looking up at me pathetically, "you might almost_want_ to get rid of me. "

He was chained, and the label tied on to him. Forgive me that label, Chum; I think that was the worst offence of all. And why should I labelone who was speaking so eloquently for himself; who said from the tip ofhis little black nose to the end of his stumpy black tail, "I'm a sillyold ass, but there's nothing wrong in me, and they're sending me away!"But according to the regulations--one must obey the regulations, Chum. 

I gave him to the guard--a delightful man. The guard and I chained himto a brake or something. Then the guard went away, and Chum and I had alittle talk.... 

After that the train went off. 

Good-bye, little dog. 

THE TRUTH ABOUT HOME RAILS

Imagine us, if you can, sitting one on each side of the fire, I with myfeet on the mantelpiece, Margery curled up in the blue arm-chair, bothof us intent on the morning paper. To me, by good chance, has fallen thesporting page; to Margery the foreign, political, and financialintelligence of the day. 

"What, " said Margery, "does it mean when it says----" She stopped andspelt it over to herself again. 

I put down my piece of the paper and prepared to explain. The desire forknowledge in the young cannot be too strongly encouraged, and I havealways flattered myself that I can explain in perfectly simple languageanything which a child wants to know. For instance, I once told Margerywhat "Miniature Rifle Shooting" meant; it was a head-line which she hadcome across in her paper. The explanation took some time, owing toMargery's preconceived idea that a bird entered into it somewhere;several times, when I thought the lesson was over, she said, "Well, whatabout the bird?" But I think I made it plain to her in the end, thoughmaybe she has forgotten about it now. 

"What, " said Margery, "does it mean when it says 'Home Rails Firm'?"

I took up my paper again. The Cambridge fifteen, I was glad to see, wererapidly developing into a first-class team, and----

"'Home Rails Firm, '" repeated Margery, and looked up at me. 

My mind worked rapidly, as it always does in a crisis. 

"What did you say?" I asked in surprise. 

"What does 'Home Rails Firm' mean?"

"Where does it say that?" I went on, still thinking at lightning speed. 

"There. It said it yesterday too. "

"Ah, yes. " I made up my mind. "Well, _that_, " I said--"I think _that_ issomething you must ask your father. "

"I did ask him yesterday. "

"Well, then----"

"He told me to ask Mummy. "

Coward!

"You can be sure, " I said firmly, "that what Mummy told you would beright, " and I returned to my paper. 

"Mummy told me to wait till _you_ came. "

Really, these parents! The way they shirk their responsibilitiesnowadays is disgusting. 

"'Home Rails Firm, '" said Margery, and settled herself to listen. 

It is good that children should be encouraged to take an interest in theaffairs of the day, but I do think that a little girl might be taught byher father (or if more convenient, mother) _which_ part of a newspaperto read. Had Margery asked me the difference between a bunker and abanker, had she demanded an explanation of "ultimatum" or "guillotine, "I could have done something with it; but to let a child of six fill herhead with ideas as to the firmness or otherwise of Home Rails is hardlynice. However, an explanation had to be given. 

"Well, it's like this, Margery, " I said at last. "Supposing--well, yousee, supposing--that is to say, if _I_----" and then I stopped. I had asort of feeling--intuition, they call it--that I was beginning in thewrong way. 

"Go on, " said Margery. 

"Perhaps I had better put it this way. Supposing you were to---- Well, we'd better begin further back than that. You know what---- No, I don'tsuppose you do know that. Well, if I--that is to say, when a man--youknow, it's rather difficult to explain this, Margery. "

"Are you explaining it now?"

"I'm just going to begin. "

"Thank you, Uncle. "

I lit my pipe slowly, while I considered again how best to approach thematter. 

"'Home Rails Firm, '" said Margery. "Isn't it a _funny_ thing to say?"

It was. It was a very _silly_ thing to say. Whoever said it first mighthave known what it would lead to. 

"Perhaps I can explain it best like this, Margery, " I said, beginning ona new tack. "I suppose you know what 'firm' means?"

"What does it mean?"

"Ah, well, if you don't know _that_, " I said, rather pleased, "perhaps Ihad better explain that first. 'Firm' means that--that is to say, youcall a thing firm if it--well, if it doesn't--that is to say, a thing isfirm if it can't _move_. "

"Like a house?"

"Well, something like that. This chair, for instance, " and I put my handon her chair, "is firm because you can't shake it. You see, it'squite---- Hallo, what's that?"

"Oh, you bad Uncle, you've knocked the castor off again, " cried Margery, greatly excited at the incident. 

"This is too much, " I said bitterly. "Even the furniture is against me. "

"Go on explaining, " said Margery, rocking herself in the now wobblychair. 

I decided to leave "firm. " It is not an easy word to explain at the bestof times, and when everything you touch goes and breaks itself itbecomes perfectly impossible. 

"Well, so much for that, " I said. "And now we come to 'rails. ' You knowwhat rails are?"

"Like I've got in the nursery?"

This was splendid. I had forgotten these for the moment. 

"Exactly. The rails your train goes on. Well then, '_Home_ Rails' wouldbe rails at _home_. "

"Well, I've _got_ them at home, " said Margery in surprise. "I couldn'thave them anywhere else. "

"Quite so. Then 'Home Rails Firm' would mean that--er--home railswere--er--firm. "

"But mine aren't, because they wobble. You know they do. "

"Yes, but----"

"Well, why do they say 'Home Rails Firm' when they mean 'Home RailsWobble'?"

"Ah, that's just it. The point is that when they say 'Home Rails Firm, 'they don't mean that the rails _themselves_ are firm. In fact, theydon't mean at all what you think they mean. They mean something quitedifferent. "

"What _do_ they mean?"

"I am just going to explain, " I said stiffly. 

 . . . . . 

"Or perhaps I had better put it this way, " I said ten minutes later. "Supposing---- Oh, Margery, it _is_ difficult to explain. "

"I _must_ know, " said Margery. 

"_Why_ do you want to know so badly?"

"I want to know a million million times more than anything else in thewhole world. "

"Why?"

"So as I can tell Angela, " said Margery. 

I plunged into my explanation again. Angela is three, and I can quitesee how important it is that she should be sound on the question. 

THE KING'S SONS

 _"Tell me a story, " said Margery. _

 _"What sort of a story?"_

 _"A fairy story, because it's Christmas-time. "_

 _"But you know all the fairy stories. "_

 _"Then tell me a new fairy story. "_

 _"Right, " I said. _

Once upon a time there was a King who had three sons. The eldest son wasa very thoughtful youth. He always had a reason for everything he did, and sometimes he would say things like "Economically it is to theadvantage of the State that----" or "The civic interests of thecommunity demand that----" before doing something specially horrid. Hedidn't want to be unkind to anybody, but he took what he called a "largeview" of things; and if you happened to ask for a third help ofplum-pudding he took the large view that you would be sorry about itnext morning--and so you didn't have your plum-pudding. He was calledPrince Proper. 

The second son was a very wise youth. You couldn't catch him anyhow. Ifyou asked him whether he knew the story of the three wells, or "Why doesa chicken cross the road?" or anything really amusing like that, hewould always say, "Oh, I heard that _years_ ago!"--and whenever youbegan "Adam and Eve and Pinchme" he would pinch you at once withoutwaiting like a gentleman until you had got to the end of the verse. Hewas called Prince Clever. 

And the third son was just wonderfully beautiful. He had the mostmarvellously pink cheeks and long golden hair that you have ever seen. Idon't much care for that style myself, but in the country in which helived it was admired more than I can tell you. He was called PrinceGoldenlocks. I'll give you three guesses why. 

Now the King had reigned a long time, so long that he was tired of beingking, and he often used to wonder which of his sons ought to succeedhim. Of course, nowadays they never wonder, and the eldest son becomesking at once, and quite right too; but in those days it was generallyleft to the sons to prove which among themselves was the most worthy. Sometimes they would all be sent out to find the magic Dragon's Tooth, and only one would come back alive, which would save a lot of trouble;or else, after a lot of discussion, they would be told to go and findbeautiful Princesses for themselves, and the one which brought back themost beautiful Princess--but very often that would lead to anotherdiscussion. The best way of all was to call in a Fairy to help. A Fairyhas all sorts of tricks for finding out about you, and her favouriteplan is to pretend to be something else and see what you do. 

So the King called in a Fairy and said, "To-morrow I am sending out mythree sons into the world to seek their fortune. I want you to test themfor me and find out which is the most fitted to succeed to my throne. Ifit _should_ happen to be Prince Goldenlocks--but, of course, I don'twant to influence you in any way. "

"Leave it to me, " said the Fairy. "You agree, no doubt, that the qualitymost desirable in a king is love and kindliness----"

"Y-yes, " said the King doubtfully. 

"I was sure of it. Well, I have a way of putting this quality to thetest which has never yet failed. " And with that she vanished. She couldhave gone out at the door quite easily, but she preferred to vanish. 

I expect you know what her way was. You have read about it often in yourfairy books. On the next day, as Prince Proper was coming along theroad, she appeared suddenly in front of him in the shape of a poor oldwoman. 

"Please give me something to buy a crust of bread, pretty gentleman, "she pleaded. "I'm starving. "

Prince Proper looked at her sternly. 

"Economically, " he said, "it is to the advantage of the State that thesubmerged classes should be a charge on the State itself and not onindividuals. The civic interests of the community demand thatpromiscuous charity should be sternly discouraged. Surely you see thatfor yourself?"

The Fairy didn't quite. The language had taken her by surprise. In allher previous adventures of this kind, two of the young Princes hadrefused her roughly, and the third had shared his last piece of breadwith her. This adventure was going all wrong. 

"Let me explain it to you more fully, " went on Proper, and for an hourand twenty-seven minutes he did so. Then he went on his way, leaving adazed Fairy behind him. 

By and by Prince Clever came along. Suddenly he saw a poor old woman infront of him. 

"Please give me something to buy a crust of bread, " she pleaded. "I'mstarving. "

Prince Clever burst into a roar of laughter. 

"You don't catch _me_, " he said. "I've read about this a _hundred_times. You're not an old woman at all; you're a Fairy. "

"W-what do you mean?" she stammered. 

"This is a silly test of Father's. Well, you can tell him he's got _one_son who's clever enough to see through him. " And he went on his way. 

By and by Prince Goldenlocks came along. I need not say that he did allthat you would expect of a third and youngest son who had pink cheeks, long golden hair, and (as I ought to have said before) a very lovingnature. He shared his last piece of bread with the poor old woman.... 

(Surely he will get the throne!)

But the Fairy was an honest Fairy. She did understand Proper's point ofview; she had to admit that, if Clever saw through her deception, it washonourable of him to have said so. And though, of course, her lovingheart was all for Prince Goldenlocks, she felt that it would not be fairto award the throne to him without a further trial. So she did anotherthing that she was very fond of doing. She changed herself into a prettylittle dove and--right in front of Prince Proper--she flew with a hawkin pursuit of her. "_Now_ we shall see, " she said to herself, "which ofthe three youths has the softest heart. "

You can guess what Proper said. 

"Life, " he said, "is one constant battle. Nature, " he said, "isruthless, and the weakest must go to the wall. If I kill the hawk, " hesaid, "I am kind to the dove, but am I, " he said, and I think there wasa good deal in this--"am I kind to the caterpillar or whatever it isthat the dove eats?" Of course, you know, there _is_ that to be thoughtof. Anyhow, after soliloquizing for forty-seven minutes Prince Properwent on his way; and by and by Prince Clever came along. 

You can guess what Clever said. 

"My whiskers!" he said, "this is older than the last. I knew this in mycradle. " With one of those nasty sarcastic laughs that I hate so much hewent on his way; and by and by Prince Goldenlocks came along. 

(Now then, Goldenlocks, the throne is almost yours!)

You can guess what Goldenlocks said. 

"Poor little dove, " he said. "But I can save its life. "

Rapidly he fitted an arrow to his bow and with careful aim let fly atthe pursuing hawk.... 

I say again that Prince Goldenlocks was the most beautiful youth youhave ever seen in your life, and he had a very loving nature. But he wasa poor shot. 

He hit the dove.... 

 _"Is that all?" said Margery. _

 _"That's all, " I said. "Good night. "_

DISAPPOINTMENT

My young friend Bobby (now in the early thirteens) has been making hisplans for the Christmas holidays. He communicated them to me in a letterfrom school:--

"I am going to write an opera in the holidays with a boy called Short, avery great and confident friend of mine here. I am doing the words andShort is doing the music. We have already got the title; it is called'Disappointment. '"

Last week, on his return to town, he came to see me at my club, and whenthe waiter had brought in drinks, and Bobby had refused a cigar, Ilighted up and prepared to talk shop. His recent discovery that I writetoo leads him to treat me with more respect than formerly. 

"Now then, " I said, "tell me about it. How's it going on?"

"Oo, I haven't done much yet, " said Bobby. "But I've got the plot. "

"Let's have it. "

Bobby unfolded it rapidly. 

"Well, you see, there's a chap called Tommy--he's the hero--and he'sjust come back from Oxford, and he's awfully good-looking and decent andall that, and he's in love with Felicia, you see, and there's anotherchap called Reynolds, and, you see, Felicia's really the same asPhyllis, who's going to marry Samuel, and that's the disappointment, because Tommy wants to marry her, you see. "

"I see. That ought to be all right. You could almost get two operas outof that. "

"Oo, do you think so?"

"Well, it depends how much Reynolds comes in. You didn't tell me whathappened to him. Does he marry anybody?"

"Oo, no. He comes in because I want somebody to tell the audience aboutTommy when Tommy isn't there. "

(How well Bobby has caught the dramatic idea. )

"I see. He ought to be very useful. "

"You see, the First Act's in a very grand restaurant, and Tommy comes into have dinner, and he explains to Reynolds how he met Felicia on aboat, and she'd lost her umbrella, and he said, 'Is this your umbrella?'and it was, and they began to talk to each other, and then he was inlove with her. And then he goes out, and then Reynolds tells theaudience what an awfully decent chap Tommy is. "

"Why does he go out?"

"Well, you see, Reynolds couldn't tell everybody what an awfully decentchap Tommy is if Tommy was there. "

(Of course he couldn't. )

"And where's Felicia all this time?"

"Oo, she doesn't come on: She's in the country with Samuel. You see, theSecond Act is a grand country wedding, and Samuel and Phyllis aremarried, and Tommy is one of the guests, and he's very unhappy, but hetries not to show it, and he shoots himself. "

"Reynolds is there too, I suppose?"

"Oo, I don't know yet. "

(He'll have to be, of course. He'll be wanted to tell the audience howunhappy Tommy is. )

"And how does it end?" I asked. 

"Well, you see, when the wedding's over, Tommy sings a song aboutFelicia, and it ends up, 'Felicia, Felicia, Felicia, ' getting highereach time--Short has to do that part, of course, but I've told himabout it--and then the curtain comes down. "

"I see. And has Short written any of the music yet?"

"He's got some of the notes. You see, I've only just got the plot, andI've written about two pages. I'm writing it in an exercise-book. "

A shadow passed suddenly across the author's brow. 

"And the sickening thing, " he said, as he leant back in his chair andsipped his ginger-beer, "is that on the cover of it I've speltDisappointment with two 's's. '"

(The troubles of this literary life!)

"Sickening, " I agreed. 

 . . . . . 

If there is one form of theft utterly unforgivable it is the theft by awriter of another writer's undeveloped ideas. Borrow the plot of Sir J. M. Barrie's last play, and you do him no harm; you only write yourselfdown a plagiarist. But listen to the scenario of his next play (if he iskind enough to read it to you) and write it up before he has time todevelop it himself, and you do him a grievous wrong; for you fix thecharge of plagiarism on _him_. Surely, you say, no author could sink solow as this. 

And yet, when I got home, the plot of "Disappointment" (with one "s") sotook hold of me that I did the unforgivable thing; I went to my desk andwrote the opera. I make no excuses for myself. I only point out thatBobby's opera, as performed at Covent Garden in Italian, with Short'smusic conducted by Richter, is not likely to be belittled by anythingthat I may write here. I have only written in order that I may get thescenario--which had begun to haunt me--off my chest. Bobby, I know, willunderstand and forgive; Short I have not yet had the pleasure ofmeeting, but I believe he is smaller than Bobby. 

 ACT I. 

 SCENE--_A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just back from Oxford. _

 _Tommy sings:_

 Felicia, I love you, By all the stars above you I swear you shall be mine!-- And now I'm going to dine. 

 [_He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger-beer and some meringues. _

 _Waiter. _ Your dinner, Sir. 

 _Tommy. _ Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if you see him? (_To the audience_) A week ago I was crossing the Channel--(_enter Reynolds_)--Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes. " Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was Felicia. And now I must go and see about something. [_Exit. _

 _Reynolds. _ Poor Tommy! An awfully decent chap if ever there was one. But he will never marry Felicia, because I happen to know her real name is Phyllis, and she is engaged to Samuel. 

 (_Recitative. _)

 She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy, He does not know she's fond of Samuel. He _will_ be disappointed when he knows. 

 CURTAIN. 

 ACT II. 

 SCENE--_A beautiful country wedding. _

 _Tommy_ (_in pew nearest door, to_ Reynolds). Who's the bride?

 _Reynolds. _ Phyllis. She's marrying Samuel. 

 _Enter Bride_. 

 _Tommy. _ Heavens, it's Felicia!

 _Reynolds_ (_to audience_). Poor Tommy! How disappointed he must be! (_Aloud_) Yes, Felicia and Phyllis are really the same girl. She's engaged to Samuel. 

 _Tommy. _ Then I cannot marry her!

 _Reynolds. _ No. 

 _Tommy sings:_

 Good-bye, Felicia, good-bye, I'm awfully disappointed, I Am now, in fact, about to die, Felicia, Felicia, Felicia!

 [_Shoots himself. _

 CURTAIN. 

 . . . . . 

That is how I see it. But no doubt Bobby and Short, when they really getto work, will make something better of it. It is an engaging theme, but, of course, the title wants to be spelt properly. 

AMONG THE ANIMALS

Jeremy was looking at a card which his wife had just passed across thetable to him. 

"'Lady Bendish. At Home, '" he read. "'Pets. ' Is this for us?"

"Of course, " said Mrs. Jeremy. 

"Then I think 'Pets' is rather familiar. 'Mr. And Mrs. J. P. Smith'would have been more correct. "

"Don't be silly, Jeremy. It means it's a Pet party. You have to bringsome sort of pet with you, and there are prizes for the prettiest, andthe most intelligent, and the most companionable, and so on. " She lookedat the fox-terrier curled up in front of the fire-place. "We could takeRags, of course. "

"Or Baby, " said Jeremy. "We'll enter her in the Fat Class. "

But when the day arrived Jeremy had another idea. He came in from thegarden with an important look on his face, and joined his wife in thehall. 

"Come on, " he said. "Let's start. "

"But where's Rags?"

"Rags isn't coming. I'm taking Hereward instead. " He opened hiscigarette-case and disclosed a small green animal. "Hereward, " he said. 

"Why, Jeremy, " cried his wife, "it's--why, it's blight from therose-tree!"

"It isn't just blight, dear; it's one particular blight. A blight. Hereward, the Last of the Blights. " He wandered round the hall. "Where'sthe lead?" he asked. 

"Jeremy, don't be absurd. "

"My dear, I must have something to lead him up for his prize on. Duringthe parade he can sit on my shoulder informally, but when we come to theprize-giving, 'Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward, ' must be led onproperly. " He pulled open a drawer. "Oh, here we are. I'd better takethe chain; he might bite through the leather one. "

They arrived a little late, to find a lawn full of people and animals;and one glance was sufficient to tell Jeremy that in some of the classesat least his pet would have many dangerous rivals. 

"If there's a prize for the biggest, " he said to his wife, "my blighthas practically lost it already. Adams has brought a cart-horse. Hullo, Adams, " he went on, "how are you? Don't come too close or Hereward maydo your animal a mischief. "

"Who's Hereward?"

Jeremy opened his cigarette-case. 

"Hereward, " he said. "Not the woodbine; that's quite wild. The blight. He's much more domesticated, but there are moments when he gets out ofhand and becomes unmanageable. He gave me the slip coming here, and Ihad to chase him through the churchyard; that's why we're late. "

"Does he take meals with the family?" asked Adams with a grin. 

"No, no; he has them alone in the garden. You ought to see him havinghis bath. George, our gardener, looks after him. George gives him aspecial bath of soapy water every day. Hereward simply loves it. Georgesquirts on him, and Hereward lies on his back and kicks his legs in theair. It's really quite pretty to watch them. "

He nodded to Adams, and wandered through the crowd with Mrs. Jeremy. Thecollection of animals was remarkable; they varied in size from Adams'scart-horse to Jeremy's blight; in playfulness from the Vicar's kittento Miss Trehearne's chrysalis; and in ability for performing tricks fromthe Major's poodle to Dr. Bunton's egg of the Cabbage White. 

"There ought to be a race for them all, " said Mrs. Jeremy. "A handicap, of course. "

"Hereward is very fast over a short distance, " said Jeremy, "but hewants encouragement. If he were given ninety-nine yards, two feet, andeleven inches in a hundred, and you were to stand in front of him with aWilliam Allan Richardson, I think we might pull it off. But, of course, he's a bad starter. Hullo, there's Miss Bendish. "

Miss Bendish, hurrying along, gave them a word as she went past. 

"They're going to have the inspection directly, " she said, "and give theprizes. Is your animal quite ready?"

"I should like to brush him up a bit, " said Jeremy. "Is there a tent oranywhere where I could prepare him? His eyebrows get so matted if he'sleft to himself for long. " He took out a cigarette and lit it. 

"There's a tent, but you'll have to hurry up. "

"Oh, well, it doesn't really matter, " said Jeremy, as he walked alongwith her. "Hereward's natural beauty and agility will take him through. "

On the south lawn the pets and their owners were assembling. Jeremy tookthe leash out of his pocket and opened his cigarette-case. 

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Hereward has escaped! Quick! Shut the gates!"He saw Adams near and hurried up to him. "My blight has escaped, " hesaid breathlessly, holding up the now useless leash. "He gnawed throughthe chain and got away. I'm afraid he may be running amok among theguests. Supposing he were to leap upon Sir Thomas from behind and savagehim--it's too terrible. " He moved anxiously on. "Have you seen myblight?" he asked Miss Trehearne. "He has escaped, and we are ratheranxious. If he were to get the Vicar down and begin to worry him----" Hemurmured something about "once getting the taste for blood" and hurriedoff. The guests were assembled, and the judges walked down the line andinspected their different animals. They were almost at the end of itwhen Jeremy sprinted up and took his place by the last beast. 

"It's all right, " he panted to his wife, "I've got him. Silly of me tomislay him, but he's so confoundedly shy. " He held out his finger as thejudges approached, and introduced them to the small green pet perchingon the knuckle. "A blight, " he said. "Hereward, the Chief Blight. Beenin the family for years. A dear old friend. "

Jeremy went home a proud man. "Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward, " hadtaken first prize in the All-round class. 

 . . . . . 

"Yes, " he admitted to his wife at dinner, "there is something on mymind. " He looked at the handsome cigarette-box on the table in front ofhim and sighed. 

"What is it, dear? You enjoyed yourself this afternoon, you know youdid, and Hereward won you that beautiful cigarette-box. You ought to beproud. "

"That's the trouble. Hereward didn't win it. "

"But they said--they read it out, and----"

"Yes, but they didn't know. It was really Elspeth who won it. "

"Elspeth?"

"Yes, dear. " Jeremy sighed again. "When Hereward escaped and I went backfor him, I didn't find him as I--er--pretended. So I went to the rosegarden and--and borrowed Elspeth. Fortunately no one noticed it was alady blight ... They all took it for Hereward.... But it was reallyElspeth--and belonged to Lady Bendish. "

He helped himself to a cigarette from the box. 

"It's an interesting point, " he said. "I shall go and confess to-morrowto Sir Thomas, and see what he thinks about it. If he wants the boxback, well and good. "

He refilled his glass. 

"After all, " he said, "the real blow is losing Hereward. Elspeth--Elspeth is very dear to me, but she can never be quite thesame. "

A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA

William Bales--as nice a young man as ever wore a cummerbund on anesplanade--was in despair. For half an hour he and Miss Spratt had beensitting in silence on the pier, and it was still William's turn to saysomething. Miss Spratt's last remark had been, "Oh, Mr. Bales, you dosay things!" and William felt that his next observation must at allcosts live up to the standard set for it. Three or four times he hadopened his mouth to speak, and then on second thoughts had rejected theintended utterance as unworthy. At the end of half an hour his mind wasstill working fruitlessly. He knew that the longer he waited the morebrilliant he would have to be, and he told himself that even BernardShaw or one of those clever writing fellows would have been hard put toit now. 

William was at odds with the world. He was a romantic young man who hadonce been told that he nearly looked like Lewis Waller when he frowned, and he had resolved that his holiday this year should be a very dashingaffair indeed. He had chosen the sea in the hopes that some oldgentleman would fall off the pier and let himself be saved by--and, later on, photographed with--William Bales, who in a subsequentinterview would modestly refuse to take any credit for the gallantrescue. As his holiday had progressed he had felt the need for some suchold gentleman more and more; for only thus, he realised, could hecapture the heart of the wayward Miss Spratt. But so far it had been adull season; in a whole fortnight nobody had gone out of his way tooblige William, and to-morrow he must return to the City as unknown andas unloved as when he left it. 

"Got to go back to-morrow, " he said at last. As an impromptu it wouldhave served, but as the result of half an hour's earnest thought he feltthat it did not do him justice. 

"So you said before, " remarked Miss Spratt. 

"Well, it's still true. "

"Talking about it won't help it, " said Miss Spratt. 

William sighed and looked round the pier. There was an old gentlemanfishing at the end of it, his back turned invitingly to William. In halfan hour he had caught one small fish (which he had had to return asunder the age limit) and a bunch of seaweed. William felt that there wasa wasted life; a life, however, which a sudden kick and a heroic rescueby W. Bales might yet do something to justify. At the Paddington Baths, a month ago, he had won a plate-diving competition; and though there isa difference between diving for plates and diving for old gentlemen hewas prepared to waive it. One kick and then ... Fame! And, not onlyFame, but the admiration of Angelina Spratt. 

It was perhaps as well for the old gentleman--who was really quiteworthy, and an hour later caught a full-sized whiting--that Miss Sprattspoke at this moment. 

"Well, you're good company, I must say, " she observed to William. 

"It's so hot, " said William. 

"You can't say _I_ asked to come here. "

"Let's go on the beach, " said William desperately. "We can find a shadycave or something. " Fate was against him; there was to be no rescue thatday. 

"I'm sure I'm agreeable, " said Miss Spratt. 

They walked in silence along the beach, and, rounding a corner of thecliffs, they came presently to a cave. In earlier days W. Bales couldhave done desperate deeds against smugglers there, with Miss Sprattlooking on. Alas for this unromantic age! It was now a place forpicnics, and a crumpled sheet of newspaper on the sand showed that therehad been one there that very afternoon. 

They sat in a corner of the cave, out of the sun, out of sight of thesea, and William prepared to renew his efforts as a conversationalist. In the hope of collecting a few ideas as to what the London clubs weretalking about he picked up the discarded newspaper, and saw with disgustthat it was the local _Herald_. But just as he threw it down, a line init caught his eye and remained in his mind:

 "_High tide to-day--3. 30. _"

William's heart leapt. He looked at his watch; it was 2. 30. In one hourthe waves would be dashing remorselessly into the cave, would be leapingup the cliff, what time he and Miss Spratt----

Suppose they were caught by the tide.... 

Meanwhile the lady, despairing of entertainment, had removed her hat. 

"Really, " she said, "I'm that sleepy---- I suppose the tide's safe, Mr. Bales?"

It was William's chance. 

"Quite, quite safe, " he said earnestly. "It's going down hard. "

"Well then, I almost think----" She closed her eyes. "Wake me up whenyou've thought of something really funny, Mr. Bales. "

William was left alone with Romance. 

He went out of the cave and looked round. The sea was still some wayout, but it came up quickly on this coast. In an hour ... In an hour.... 

He scanned the cliffs, and saw the ledge whither he would drag her. Shewould cling to him crying, calling him her rescuer.... 

What should he do then? Should he leave her and swim for help? Or shouldhe scale the mighty cliff?

He returned to the cave and, gazing romantically at the sleeping MissSpratt, conjured up the scene. It would go like this, he thought. 

_Miss Spratt_ (_wakened by the spray dashing over her face_). Oh, Mr. Bales! We're cut off by the tide! Save me!

_W. Bales_ (_lightly_). Tut-tut, there's no danger. It's nothing. (_Aside_) Great Heavens! Death stares us in the face!

_Miss Spratt_ (_throwing her arms around his neck_). William, save me; Icannot swim!

_W. Bales_ (_with Waller face_). Trust me, Angelina. I will fight my wayround yon point and obtain help. (_Aside_) An Englishman can only dieonce. 

_Miss Spratt. _ Don't leave me!

_W. Bales. _ Fear not, sweetheart. See, there is a ledge where you willbe beyond the reach of the hungry tide. I will carry you thither in myarms and will then----

At this point in his day-dream William took another look at the sleepingMiss Spratt, felt his biceps doubtfully, and went on----

_W. Bales. _ I will help you to climb thither, and will then swim forhelp. 

_Miss Spratt. _ My hero!

Again and again William reviewed the scene to himself. It was perfect. His photograph would be in the papers; Miss Spratt would worship him; hewould be a hero in his City office. The actual danger was slight, for atthe worst she could shelter in the far end of the cave; but he would notlet her know this. He would do the thing heroically--drag her to theledge on the cliff, and then swim round the point to obtain help. 

The thought struck him that he could conduct the scene better in hisshirt-sleeves. He removed his coat, and then went out of the cave toreconnoitre the ledge. 

 . . . . . 

Miss Spratt awoke with a start and looked at her watch. It was 4. 15. Thecave was empty save for a crumpled page of newspaper. She glanced atthis idly and saw that it was the local _Herald_ ... Eight days old. 

Far away on the horizon William Bales was throwing stones bitterly atthe still retreating sea. 

OLD FRIENDS

"It was very nice of you to invite me to give you lunch, " I said, "andif only the waiter would bring the toast I should be perfectly happy. Ican't say more. "

"Why not?" said Miss Middleton, looking up. "Oh, I see. "

"And now, " I said, when I had finished my business with a sardine, "tellme all about it. I know something serious must have brought you up toLondon. What is it? Have you run away from home?"

Miss Middleton nodded. "Sir Henery, " she added dramatically, "waits forme in his yacht at Dover. My parents would not hear of the marriage, andimmured me in the spare room. They tried to turn me against my love, andtold wicked stories about him, vowing that he smoked five non-throatcigarettes in a day. Er--would you pass the pepper, please?"

"Go on, " I begged. "Never mind the pepper. "

"But, of course, I really came to see you, " said Miss Middleton briskly. "I want you to do something for me. "

"I knew it. "

"Oh, _do_ say you'd love to. "

I drained my glass and felt very brave. 

"I'd love to, " I said doubtfully. "At least, if I were sure that----" Ilowered my voice: "Look here--have I got to write to anybody?"

"No, " said Miss Middleton. 

"Let me know the worst. Have I--er--have I got to give advice toanybody?"

"No. "

There was one other point that had to be settled. I leant across thetable anxiously. 

"Have I got to ring anybody up on the telephone?" I asked in a hoarsewhisper. 

"Oh, nothing like that at all, " said Miss Middleton. 

"Dash it, " I cried, "then of _course_ I'll do anything for you. What isit? Somebody you want killed? I could kill a mayor to-day. "

Miss Middleton was silent for a moment while allowing herself to behelped to fish. When the waiters had moved away, "We are having a jumblesale, " she announced. 

I shook my head at her. 

"Your life, " I said, "is one constant round of gaiety. "

"And I thought as I was coming to London I'd mention it to you. Becauseyou're always saying you don't know what to do with your old things. "

"I'm not _always_ saying it. I may have mentioned it once or twice whenthe conversation was flagging. "

"Well, mention it now, and then I'll mention my jumble sale. "

I thought it over for a moment. 

"It will mean brown paper and string, " I said hopelessly, "and I don'tknow where to get them. "

"I'll buy some after lunch for you. You shall hold my hand while I buyit. "

"And then I should have to post it, and I'm _rotten_ at posting things. "

"But you needn't post it, because you can meet me at the station withit, and I'll take it home. "

"I don't think it's quite etiquette for a young girl to travel alonewith a big brown-paper parcel. What would Mrs. Middleton say if sheknew?"

"Mother?" cried Miss Middleton. "But, of course, it's her idea. You_didn't_ think it was mine?" she said reproachfully. 

"The shock of it unnerved me for a moment. Of course, I see now that itis Mrs. Middleton's jumble sale entirely. " I sighed and helped myself tosalt. "How do I begin?"

"You drive me to my dressmaker and leave me there and go on to yourrooms. And then you collect a few really old things that you don't wantand tie them up and meet me at the 4. 40. I'm afraid, " she said frankly, "it _is_ a rotten way of spending an afternoon; but I promised mother. "

"I'll do it, " I said. 

My parcel and I arrived promptly to time. Miss Middleton didn't. 

"Don't say I've caught the wrong train, " she said breathlessly, when atlast she appeared. "It does go at 4. 40, doesn't it?"

"It does, " I said, "and it did. "

"Then my watch must be slow. "

"Send it to the jumble sale, " I advised. "Look here--we've a long timeto wait for the next train; let's undress my parcel in the waiting-room, and I'll point out the things that really want watching. Some areabsolutely unique. "

It was an odd collection of very dear friends, Miss Middleton's finalreminder having been that _nothing_ was too old for a jumble sale. 

"_Lot One_, " I said. "A photograph of my house cricket eleven, framed inoak. Very interesting. The lad on the extreme right is now a clergyman. "

"Oh, which is you?" said Miss Middleton eagerly. 

I was too much wrapped up in my parcel to answer. "_Lot Two_, " I wenton. "A pink-and-white football shirt; would work up into a dressy blousefor adult, or a smart overcoat for child. _Lot Three. _ A knittedwaistcoat; could be used as bath-mat. _Lot Four. _ Pair of bedroomslippers in holes. This bit is the slipper; the rest is the hole. _LotFive. _ Now this is something really good. _Truthful Jane_--my firstprize at my Kindergarten. "

"Mother _is_ in luck. It's just the sort of things she wants, " said MissMiddleton. 

"Her taste is excellent. _Lot Six. _ A pair of old grey flannel trousers. _Lot Seven. _ Lot Seven forward. Where are you?" I began to go throughthe things again. "Er--I'm afraid Lot Seven has already gone. "

"What about Lot Eight?"

"There doesn't seem to be a Lot Eight either. It's very funny; I'm sureI started with more than this. Some of the things must have eaten eachother on the way. "

"Oh, but this is _heaps_. Can you really spare them all?"

"I should feel honoured if Mrs. Middleton would accept them, " I saidwith a bow. "Don't forget to tell her that in the photograph the lad onthe extreme right----" I picked up the photograph and examined it morecarefully. "I say, _I_ look rather jolly, don't you think? I wonder if Ihave another copy of this anywhere. " I gazed at it wistfully. "That wasmy first year for the house, you know. "

"Don't give it away, " said Miss Middleton suddenly. "Keep it. "

"Shall I? I don't want to deprive---- Well, I think I will if you don'tmind. " My eyes wandered to the shirt. "I've had some fun in _that_ in mytime, " I said thoughtfully. "The first time I wore it----"

"You really _oughtn't_ to give away your old colours, you know. "

"Oh, but if Mrs. Middleton, " I began doubtfully--"at least, don'tyou--what?--oh, all right, perhaps I won't. " I put the shirt on one sidewith the photograph, and picked up the dear old comfy bedroom slippers. I considered them for a minute and then I sighed deeply. As I looked upI caught Miss Middleton's eye.... I think she had been smiling. 

"About the slippers, " she said gravely. 

 . . . . . 

"Good-bye, " I said to Miss Middleton. "It's been jolly to see you. " Igrasped my parcel firmly as the train began to move. "I'm always glad tohelp Mrs. Middleton, and if ever I can do so again be sure to let meknow. "

"I will, " said Miss Middleton. 

The train went out of the station, and my parcel and I looked about fora cab. 

GETTING MARRIED

GETTING MARRIED

I. --THE DAY

Probably you thought that getting married was quite a simple business. So did I. We were both wrong; it is the very dickens. Of course, I amnot going to draw back now. As I keep telling Celia, her Ronald is a manof powerful fibre, and when he says he will do a thing he doesit--eventually. She shall have her wedding all right; I have sworn it. But I do wish that there weren't so many things to be arranged first. 

The fact that we had to fix a day was broken to me one afternoon whenCelia was showing me to some relatives of hers in the Addison Road. Igot entangled with an elderly cousin on the hearth-rug; and though Iknow nothing about motor-bicycles I talked about them for several hoursunder the impression that they were his subject. It turned outafterwards that he was equally ignorant of them, but thought they weremine. Perhaps we shall get on better at a second meeting. However, justwhen we were both thoroughly sick of each other, Celia broke off her gaychat with an aunt to say to me:

"By the way, Ronald, we did settle on the eleventh, didn't we?"

I looked at her blankly, my mind naturally full of motor-bicycles. 

"The wedding, " smiled Celia. 

"Right-o, " I said with enthusiasm. I was glad to be assured that Ishould not go on talking about motor-bicycles for ever, and that on theeleventh, anyhow, there would be a short interruption for the ceremony. Feeling almost friendly to the cousin, I plunged into his favouritesubject again. 

On the way home Celia returned to the matter. 

"Or you would rather it was the twelfth?" she asked. 

"I've never heard a word about this before, " I said. "It all comes as asurprise to me. "

"Why, I'm _always_ asking you. "

"Well, it's very forward of you, and I don't know what young people arecoming to nowadays. Celia, what's the _good_ of my talking to yourcousin for three hours about motor-bicycling? Surely one can get marriedjust as well without that?"

"One can't get married without settling the day, " said Celia, comingcleverly back to the point. 

Well, I suppose one can't. But somehow I had expected to be spared allthis bother. I think my idea was that Celia would say to me suddenly oneevening, "By the way, Ronald, don't forget we're being marriedto-morrow, " and I should have said "Where?" And on being told the timeand place, I should have turned up pretty punctually; and after my bestman had told me where to stand, and the clergyman had told me what tosay, and my solicitor had told me where to sign my name, we should havedriven from the church a happy married couple ... And in the carriageCelia would have told me where we were spending the honeymoon. 

However, it was not to be so. 

"All right, the eleventh, " I said. "Any particular month?"

"No, " smiled Celia, "just any month. Or, if you like, every month. "

"The eleventh of June, " I surmised. "It is probably the one day in theyear on which my Uncle Thomas cannot come. But no matter. The eleventhlet it be. "

"Then that's settled. And at St. Miriam's?"

For some reason Celia has set her heart on St. Miriam's. Personally Ihave no feeling about it. St. Andrew's-by-the-Wardrobe or St. Bartholomew's-Without would suit me equally well. 

"All right, " I said, "St. Miriam's. "

There, you might suppose, the matter would have ended; but no. 

"Then you will see about it to-morrow?" said Celia persuasively. 

I was appalled at the idea. 

"Surely, " I said, "this is for you, or your father, or--or somebody toarrange. "

"Of _course_ it's for the bridegroom, " protested Celia. 

"In theory, perhaps. But anyhow not the bridegroom personally. His bestman ... Or his solicitor ... Or ... I mean, you're not suggesting that Imyself---- Oh, well, if you insist. Still, I must say I don't see what'sthe good of having a best man _and_ a solicitor if---- Oh, all right, Celia, I'll go to-morrow. "

So I went. For half an hour I padded round St. Miriam's nervously, andthen summoning up all my courage, I knocked my pipe out and entered. 

"I want, " I said jauntily to a sexton or a sacristan or something--"Iwant--er--a wedding. " And I added, "For two. "

He didn't seem as nervous as I was. He enquired quite calmly when Iwanted it. 

"The eleventh of June, " I said. "It's probably the one day in the yearon which my Uncle Thomas---- However, that wouldn't interest you. Thepoint is that it's the eleventh. "

The clerk consulted his wedding-book. Then he made the surprisingannouncement that the only day he could offer me in June was theseventeenth. I was amazed. 

"I am a very old customer, " I said reproachfully. "I mean, I have oftenbeen to your church in my time. Surely----"

"We've weddings fixed on all the other days. "

"Yes, yes, but you could persuade somebody to change his day, couldn'tyou? Or if he is very much set on being married on the eleventh youmight recommend some other church to him. I daresay you know of somegood ones. You see, Celia--my--that is, we're particularly keen, forsome reason, on St. Miriam's. "

The clerk didn't appreciate my suggestion. He insisted that theseventeenth was the only day. 

"Then will you have the seventeenth?" he asked. 

"My dear fellow, I can't possibly say off-hand, " I protested. "I am notalone in this. I have a friend with me. I will go back and tell her whatyou say. She may decide to withdraw her offer altogether. "

I went back and told Celia. 

"Bother, " she said. "What shall we do?"

"There are other churches. There's your own, for example. "

"Yes, but you know I don't like that. Why _shouldn't_ we be married onthe seventeenth?"

"I don't know at all. It seems an excellent day; it lets in my UncleThomas. Of course, it may exclude my Uncle William, but one can't haveeverything. "

"Then will you go and fix it for the seventeenth to-morrow?"

"Can't I send my solicitor this time?" I asked. "Of course, if youparticularly want me to go myself, I will. But really, dear, I seem tobe living at St. Miriam's nowadays. "

And even that wasn't the end of the business. For, just as I was leavingher, Celia broke it to me that St. Miriam's was neither in her parishnor in mine, and that, in order to qualify as a bridegroom, I shouldhave to hire a room somewhere near. 

"But I am very comfortable where I am, " I assured her. 

"You needn't live there, Ronald. You only want to leave a hat there, youknow. "

"Oh, very well, " I sighed. 

She came to the hall with me; and, having said good-bye to her, Irepeated my lesson. 

"The seventeenth, fix it up to-morrow, take a room near St. Miriam's, and leave a hat there. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye.... And oh, Ronald!" She looked at me critically as I stood inthe doorway. "You might leave _that_ one, " she said. 

II. --FURNISHING

"By the way, " said Celia suddenly, "what have you done about thefixtures?"

"Nothing, " I replied truthfully. 

"Well, we must do _something_ about them. "

"Yes. My solicitor--he shall do something about them. Don't let's talkabout them now. I've only got three hours more with you, and then I mustdash back to my work. "

I must say that any mention of fixtures has always bored me intensely. When it was a matter of getting a house to live in I was all energy. Assoon as Celia had found it, I put my solicitor on to it; and within amonth I had signed my name in two places, and was the owner of a highlyresidential flat in the best part of the neighbourhood. But my effort soexhausted me that I have felt utterly unable since to cope with thequestion of the curtain-rod in the bathroom or whatever it is that Celiameans by fixtures. These things will arrange themselves somehow, I feelconfident. 

Meanwhile the decorators are hard at work. A thrill of pride inflates mewhen I think of the decorators at work. I don't know how they got there;I suppose I must have ordered them. Celia says that _she_ ordered themand chose all the papers herself, and that all I did was to say that thepapers she had chosen were very pretty; but this doesn't sound like mein the least. I am convinced that I was the man of action when it cameto ordering decorators. 

"And now, " said Celia one day, "we can go and choose the electric-lightfittings. "

"Celia, " I said in admiration, "you're a wonderful person. I should haveforgotten all about them. "

"Why, they're about the most important thing in the flat. "

"Somehow I never regarded anybody as choosing them. I thought they justgrew in the wall. From bulbs. "

When we got into the shop Celia became businesslike at once. 

"We'd better start with the hall, " she told the man. 

"Everybody else will have to, " I said, "so we may as well. "

"What sort of a light did you want there?" he asked. 

"A strong one, " I said; "so as to be able to watch our guests carefullywhen they pass the umbrella-stand. "

Celia waved me away and explained that we wanted a hanging lantern. Itappeared that this shop made a speciality not so much of the voltage asof the lamps enclosing it. 

"How do you like that?" asked the man, pointing to a magnificent affairin brass. He wandered off to a switch, and turned it on. 

"Dare you ask him the price?" I asked Celia. "It looks to me about athousand pounds. If it is, say that you don't like the style. Don't lethim think we can't afford it. "

"Yes, " said Celia, in a careless sort of way. "I'm not sure that I careabout that. How much is it?"

"Two pounds. "

I was not going to show my relief. "Without the light, of course?" Isaid disparagingly. 

"How do you think it would look in the hall?" said Celia to me. 

"I think our guests would be encouraged to proceed. They'd see that wewere pretty good people. "

"I don't like it. It's too ornate. "

"Then show us something less ornate, " I told the man sternly. 

He showed us things less ornate. At the end of an hour Celia said shethought we'd better get on to another room, and come back to the hallafterwards. We decided to proceed to the drawing-room. 

"We must go all out over these, " said Celia; "I want these to be reallybeautiful. "

At the end of another hour Celia said she thought we'd better get on tomy workroom. My workroom, as the name implies, is the room to which I amto retire when I want complete quiet. Sometimes I shall go there afterlunch ... And have it. 

"We can come back to the drawing-room afterwards, " she said. "It'sreally very important that we should get the right ones for that. Yourroom won't be so difficult, but, of course, you must have awfully niceones. "

I looked at my watch. 

"It's a quarter to one, " I said. "At 2. 15 on the seventeenth of June weare due at St. Miriam's. If you think we shall have bought anything bythen, let's go on. If, as seems to me, there is no hope at all, thenlet's have lunch to-day anyhow. After lunch we may be able to find someway out of the _impasse_. "

After lunch I had an idea. 

"This afternoon, " I said, "we will begin to get some furnituretogether. "

"But what about the electric fittings? We must finish off those. "

"This is an experiment. I want to see if we can buy a chest of drawers. It may just be our day for it. "

"And we settle the fittings to-morrow. Yes?"

"I don't know. We may not want them. It all depends on whether we canbuy a chest of drawers this afternoon. If we can't, then I don't seehow we can ever be married on the seventeenth of June. Somebody's got tobe, because I've engaged the church. The question is whether it's goingto be us. Let's go and buy a chest of drawers this afternoon, and see. "

The old gentleman in the little shop Celia knew of was delighted to seeus. 

"Chestesses? Ah, you _'ave_ come to the right place. " He led the wayinto the depths. "There now. There's a chest--real old, that is. " Hegave it a hearty smack. "You don't see a chest like that nowadays. Theycan't _make_ 'em. Three pound ten. You couldn't have got that to-morrer. I'd have sold it for four pound to-morrer. "

"I knew it was our day, " I said. 

"Real old, that is. Spanish me'ogany, all oak lined. That's right, sir, pull the drawers out and see for yourself. Let the lady see. There's noimitation there, lady. A real old chest, that is. Come in 'ere in a weekand you'd have to pay five pounds for it. Me'ogany's going up, you see, that's how. "

"Well?" I said to Celia. 

"It's perfectly sweet. Hadn't we better see some more?"

We saw two more. Both of them Spanish me'ogany, oak lined, pull-the-drawers-out-and-see-for-yourself-lady. Half an hour passedrapidly. 

"Well?" I said. 

"I really don't know which I like best. Which do you?"

"The first; it's nearer the door. "

"There's another shop just over the way. We'd better just look theretoo, and then we can come back to decide to-morrow. "

We went out. I glanced at my watch. It was 3. 30, and we were beingmarried at 2. 15 on the seventeenth of June. 

"Wait a moment, " I said, "I've forgotten my gloves. "

I may be a slow starter, but I am very firm when roused. I went into theshop, wrote a cheque for the three chests of drawers, and told the manwhere to send them. When I returned, Celia was at the shop opposite, pulling the drawers out of a real old mahogany chest which was standingon the pavement outside. 

"This is even better, " she said. "It's perfectly adorable. I wonder ifit's more expensive. "

"I'll just ask, " I said. 

I went in and, without an unnecessary word, bought that chest too. ThenI came back to Celia. It was 3. 45, and on the seventeenth of June at2. 15---- Well, we had four chests of drawers towards it. 

"Celia, " I said, "we may just do it yet. "

III. --THE HONEYMOON

"I know I oughtn't to be dallying here, " I said; "I ought to be doingsomething strenuous in preparation for the wedding. Counting the bellsat St. Miriam's, or varnishing the floors in the flat, or---- Tell mewhat I ought to be doing, Celia, and I'll go on not doing it for a bit. "

"There's the honeymoon, " said Celia. 

"I knew there was something. "

"Do tell me what you're doing about it?"

"Thinking about it. "

"You haven't written to any one about rooms yet?"

"Celia, " I said reproachfully, "you seem to have forgotten why I ammarrying you. "

When Celia was browbeaten into her present engagement, she said franklythat she was only consenting to marry me because of my pianola, whichshe had always coveted. In return I pointed out that I was only askingher to marry me because I wanted somebody to write my letters. Thereopened before me, in that glad moment, a vista of invitations andaccounts-rendered all answered promptly by Celia, instead of put offtill next month by me. It was a wonderful vision to one who (veryproperly) detests letter-writing. And yet, here she was, even before theceremony, expecting me to enter into a deliberate correspondence withall sorts of strange people who as yet had not come into my life at all. It was too much. 

"We will get, " I said, "your father to write some letters for us. "

"But what's he got to do with it?"

"I don't want to complain of your father, Celia, but it seems to me thathe is not doing his fair share. There ought to be a certaingive-and-take in the matter. _I_ find you a nice church to be marriedin--good. _He_ finds you a nice place to honeymoon in--excellent. Afterall, you are still his daughter. "

"All right, " said Celia, "I'll ask father to do it. 'Dear Mrs. Bunn, mylittle boy wants to spend his holidays with you in June. I am writing toask you if you will take care of him and see that he doesn't do anythingdangerous. He has a nice disposition, but wants watching. '" She pattedmy head gently. "Something like that. "

I got up and went to the writing-desk. 

"I can see I shall have to do it myself, " I sighed. "Give me the addressand I'll begin. "

"But we haven't quite settled where we're going yet, have we?"

I put the pen down thankfully and went back to the sofa. 

"Good! Then I needn't write to-day, anyhow. It is wonderful, dear, howdifficulties roll away when you face them. Almost at once we arrive atthe conclusion that I needn't write to-day. Splendid! Well, where shallwe go? This will want a lot of thought. Perhaps, " I added, "I needn'twrite to-morrow. "

"We had almost fixed on England, hadn't we?"

"Somebody was telling me that Lynton was very beautiful. I should liketo go to Lynton. "

"But _every one_ goes to Lynton for their honeymoon. "

"Then let's be original and go to Birmingham. 'The happy couple left forBirmingham, where the honeymoon will be spent. ' Sensation. "

"'The bride left the train at Ealing. ' More sensation. "

"I think the great thing, " I said, trying to be businesslike, "is tofix the county first. If we fixed on Rutland, then the rest wouldprobably be easy. "

"The great thing, " said Celia, "is to decide what we want. Sea, orriver, or mountains, or--or golf. "

At the word golf I coughed and looked out of the window. 

Now I am very fond of Celia--I mean of golf, and--what I really mean, ofcourse, is that I am very fond of both of them. But I do think that on ahoneymoon Celia should come first. After all, I shall have plenty ofother holidays for golf ... Although, of course, three weeks in thesummer without any golf at all---- Still, I think Celia should comefirst. 

"Our trouble, " I said to her, "is that neither of us has ever been on ahoneymoon before, and so we've no idea what it will be like. After all, why should we get bored with each other? Surely we don't depend on golfto amuse us?"

"All the same, I think your golf _would_ amuse me, " said Celia. "Besides, I want you to be as happy as you possibly can be. "

"Yes, but supposing I was slicing my drives all the time, I should bemiserable. I should be torn between the desire to go back to London andhave a lesson with the professional and the desire to stay onhoneymooning with you. One can't be happy in a quandary like that. "

"Very well then, no golf. Settled?"

"Quite. Now then, let's decide about the scenery. What sort of soil doyou prefer?"

When I left Celia that day we had agreed on this much: that we wouldn'tbother about golf, and that the mountains, rivers, valleys, and so onshould be left entirely to nature. All we were to enquire for was (inthe words of an advertisement Celia had seen) "a perfect spot for ahoneymoon. "

In the course of the next day I heard of seven spots; varying from aspot in Surrey "dotted with firs, " to a dot in the Pacific spottedwith--I forget what, natives probably. Taken together they were theseven only possible spots for a honeymoon. 

"We shall have to have seven honeymoons, " I said to Celia when I hadtold her my news. "One honeymoon, one spot. "

"Wait, " she said. "I have heard of an ideal spot. "

"Speaking as a spot expert, I don't think that's necessarily better thanan only possible spot, " I objected. "Still, tell me about it. "

"Well, to begin with, it's close to the sea. "

"So we can bathe when we're bored. Good. "

"And it's got a river, if you want to fish----"

"I don't. I should hate to catch a fish who was perhaps on his honeymoontoo. Still, I like the idea of a river. "

"And quite a good mountain, and lovely walks, and, in fact, everything. Except a picture-palace, luckily. "

"It sounds all right, " I said doubtfully. "We might just spend the nextday or two thinking about my seven spots, and then I might ... Possibly... Feel strong enough to write. "

"Oh, I nearly forgot. I _have_ written, Ronald. "

"You have?" I cried. "Then, my dear, what else matters? It's a perfectspot. " I lay back in relief. "And there, thank 'evings, is another thingsettled. Bless you. "

"Yes. And, by the way, there _is_ golf quite close too. But that, " shesmiled, "needn't prevent us going there. "

"Of course not. We shall just ignore the course. "

"Perhaps, so as to be on the safe side, you'd better leave your clubsbehind. "

"Perhaps I'd better, " I said carelessly. 

All the same I don't think I will. One never knows what may happen ... And at the outset of one's matrimonial career to have to go to theexpense of an entirely new set of clubs would be a most regrettablebusiness. 

IV. --SEASONABLE PRESENTS

"I suppose, " I said, "it's too late to cancel this wedding now?"

"Well, " said Celia, "the invitations are out, and the presents arepouring in, and mother's just ordered the most melting dress for herselfthat you ever saw. Besides, who's to live in the flat if we don't?"

"There's a good deal in what you say. Still, I am alarmed, seriouslyalarmed. Look here. " I drew out a printed slip and flourished it beforeher. 

"Not a writ? My poor Ronald!"

"Worse than that. This is the St. Miriam's bill of fare for weddings. Celia, I had no idea marriage was so expensive. I thought onerolled-gold ring would practically see it. "

It was a formidable document. Starting with "full choir and organ" whichcame to a million pounds, and working down through "boys' voices only, "and "red carpet" to "policemen for controlling traffic--per policeman, 5s. , " it included altogether some two dozen ways of disposing of mysavings. 

"If we have the whole _menu_, " I said, "I shall be ruined. You wouldn'tlike to have a ruined husband. "

Celia took the list and went through it carefully. 

"I might say 'Season, '" I suggested, "or 'Press. '"

"Well, to begin with, " said Celia, "we needn't have a full choir. "

"Need we have an organ or a choir at all? In thanking people for theirkind presents you might add, 'By the way, do you sing?' Then we couldarrange to have all the warblers in the front. My best man or mysolicitor could give the note. "

"Boys' voices only, " decided Celia. "Then what about bells?"

"I should like some nice bells. If the price is 'per bell' we might givean order for five good ones. "

"Let's do without bells. You see, they don't begin to ring till we'veleft the church, so they won't be any good to _us_. "

This seemed to me an extraordinary line to take. 

"My dear child, " I remonstrated, "the whole thing is being got up notfor ourselves, but for our guests. We shall be much too preoccupied toappreciate any of the good things we provide--the texture of the redcarpet or the quality of the singing. I dreamt last night that I quiteforgot about the wedding-ring till 1. 30 on the actual day, and the onlycab I could find to take me to a jeweller's was drawn by a camel. Ofcourse, it may not turn out to be as bad as that, but it will certainlybe an anxious afternoon for both of us. And so we must consider theentertainment entirely from the point of view of our guests. Whethertheir craving is for champagne or bells, it must be satisfied. "

"I'm sure they'll be better without bells. Because when the policemencall out 'Mr. Spifkins' carriage, ' Mr. Spifkins mightn't hear if therewere a lot of bells clashing about. "

"Very well, no bells. But, mind you, " I said sternly, "I shall insist ona clergyman. "

We went through the rest of the _menu_, course by course. 

"I know what I shall do, " I said at last. "I shall call on my friend theClerk again, and I shall speak to him quite frankly. I shall say, 'Hereis a cheque for a thousand pounds. It is all I can afford--and, by theway, you'd better pay it in quickly or it will be dishonoured. Can youdo us up a nice wedding for a thousand inclusive?'"

"Like the Christmas hampers at the stores. "

"Exactly. A dozen boys' voices, a half-dozen of bells, ten yards ofawning, and twenty-four oranges, or vergers, or whatever it is. We oughtto get a nice parcel for a thousand pounds. "

"Or, " said Celia, "we might send the list round to our friends assuggestions for wedding presents. I'm sure Jane would love to give us acouple of policemen. "

"We'd much better leave the whole thing to your father. I incline moreand more to the opinion that it is _his_ business to provide thewedding. I must ask my solicitor about it. "

"He's providing the bride. "

"Yes, but I think he might go further. I can't help feeling that thebells would come very well from him. 'Bride's father to bridegroom--Apeal of bells. ' People would think it was something in silver for thehall. It would do him a lot of good in business circles. "

"And that reminds me, " smiled Celia, "there's been some talk about apresent from Miss Popley. "

I have come to the conclusion that it is impossible to get marrieddecently unless one's life is ordered on some sort of system. Mine neverhas been; and the result is that I make terrible mistakes--particularlyin the case of Miss Popley. At the beginning of the business, when thenews got round to Miss Popley, I received from her a sweet letter ofcongratulation. Knowing that she was rather particular in these mattersI braced myself up and thanked her heartily by return of post. Threedays later, when looking for a cheque I had lost, I accidentally cameacross her letter. "Help, help!" I cried. "This came days ago, and Ihaven't answered yet. " I sat down at once and thanked herenthusiastically. Another week passed and I began to feel that I mustreally make an effort to catch my correspondence up; so I got out all myletters of congratulation of the last ten days and devoted an afternoonto answering them. I used much the same form of thanks in all of them... With the exception of Miss Popley's, which was phrased particularlywarmly. 

So much for that. But Miss Popley is Celia's dear friend also. When Imade out my list of guests I included Miss Popley; so, in her list, didCelia. The result was that Miss Popley received two invitations to thewedding.... Sometimes I fear she must think we are pursuing her. 

"What does she say about a present?" I asked. 

"She wants us to tell her what we want. "

"What _are_ we to say? If we said an elephant----"

"With a small card tied on to his ear, and 'Best wishes from MissPopley' on it. It would look heavenly among the other presents. "

"You see what I mean, Celia. Are we to suggest something worth athousand pounds, or something worth ninepence? It's awfully kind of her, but it makes it jolly difficult for us. "

"Something that might cost anything from ninepence to a thousandpounds, " suggested Celia. 

"Then that washes out the elephant. "

"Can't you get the ninepenny ones now?"

"I suppose, " I said, reverting to the subject which most weighed on me, "she wouldn't like to give the men's voices for the choir?"

"No, I think a clock, " said Celia. "A clock can cost anything youlike--or don't like. "

"Right-o. And perhaps we'd better settle now. When it comes, how manytimes shall we write and thank her for it?"

Celia considered. "Four times, I think, " she said. 

 . . . . . 

Well, as Celia says, it's too late to draw back now. But I shall be gladwhen it's all over. As I began by saying, there's too much "arranging"and "settling" and "fixing" about the thing for me. In the necessarynegotiations and preparations I fear I have not shone. And so I shall betruly glad when we have settled down in our flat ... And Celia canrestore my confidence in myself once more by talking loudly to herdomestic staff about "The Master. "

HOME AFFAIRS

AN INSURANCE ACT

Of course, I had always known that a medical examination was a necessarypreliminary to insurance, but in my own case I had expected the thing tobe the merest formality. The doctor, having seen at a glance what afine, strong, healthy fellow I was, would look casually at my tongue, apologise for having doubted it, enquire genially what my grandfatherhad died of, and show me to the door. This idea of mine was fostered bythe excellent testimonial which I had written myself at the Company'sbidding. "Are you suffering from any constitutional disease?--_No_. Haveyou ever had gout?--_No_. Are you deformed?--_No_. Are you of strictlysober and temperate habits?--_No_, " I mean _Yes_. My replies had been amodel of what an Assurance Company expects. Then why the need of adoctor?

However, they insisted. 

The doctor began quietly enough. He asked, as I had anticipated, afterthe health of my relations. I said that they were very fit; and, not tobe outdone in politeness, expressed the hope that _his_ people, too, were keeping well in this trying weather. He wondered if I drank much. Isaid, "Oh, well, perhaps I _will_, " with an apologetic smile, and lookedround for the sideboard. Unfortunately he did not pursue the matter.... 

"And now, " he said, after the hundredth question, "I should like to lookat your chest. "

I had seen it coming for some time. In vain I had tried to turn theconversation--to lead him back to the subject of drinks or myrelations. It was no good. He was evidently determined to see my chest. Nothing could move him from his resolve. 

Trembling, I prepared for the encounter. What terrible disease was hegoing to discover?

He began by tapping me briskly all over in a series of double knocks. For the most part one double-knock at any point appeared to satisfy him, but occasionally there would be no answer and he would knock again. Atone spot he knocked four times before he could make himself heard. 

"This, " I said to myself at the third knock, "has torn it. I shall beploughed, " and I sent an urgent message to my chest, "For 'eving's sake_do_ something, you fool! Can't you hear the gentleman?" I suppose thatroused it, for at the next knock he passed on to an adjacent spot.... 

"Um, " he said, when he had called everywhere, "um. "

"I wonder what I've done, " I thought to myself. "I don't believe helikes my chest. "

Without a word he got out his stethoscope and began to listen to me. Asluck would have it he struck something interesting almost at once, andfor what seemed hours he stood there listening and listening to it. Butit was boring for me, because I really had very little to do. I couldhave bitten him in the neck with some ease ... Or I might have lickedhis ear. Beyond that, nothing seemed to offer. 

I moistened my lips and spoke. 

"Am I dying?" I asked in a broken voice. 

"Don't talk, " he said. "Just breathe naturally. "

"I am dying, " I thought, "and he is hiding it from me. " It was aterrible reflection. 

"Um, " he said and moved on. 

By and by he went and listened behind my back. It is very bad form tolisten behind a person's back. I did not tell him so, however. I wantedhim to like me. 

"Yes, " he said. "Now cough. "

"I haven't a cough, " I pointed out. 

"Make the noise of coughing, " he said severely. 

Extremely nervous, I did my celebrated imitation of a man with anirritating cough. 

"H'm! h'm! h'm! h'm!"

"Yes, " said the doctor. "Go on. "

"He likes it, " I said to myself, "and he must obviously be an excellentjudge. I shall devote more time to mimicry in future. H'm! h'm! h'm!... "

The doctor came round to where I could see him again. 

"Now cough like this, " he said. "Honk! honk!"

I gave my celebrated imitation of a sick rhinoceros gasping out itslife. It went well. I got an encore. 

"Um, " he said gravely, "um. " He put his stethoscope away and lookedearnestly at me. 

"Tell me the worst, " I begged. "I'm not bothering about this stupidinsurance business now. That's off, of course. But--how long have I? Imust put my affairs in order. Can you promise me a week?"

He said nothing. He took my wrists in his hands and pressed them. It wasevident that grief over-mastered him and that he was taking a silentfarewell of me. I bowed my head. Then, determined to bear mydeath-sentence like a man, I said firmly, "So be it, " and drew myselfaway from him. 

However, he wouldn't let me go. 

"Come, come, " I said to him, "you must not give way"; and I made aneffort to release one of my hands, meaning to pat him encouragingly onthe shoulder. 

He resisted.... 

I realized suddenly that I had mistaken his meaning, and that he wassimply feeling my pulses. 

"Um, " he said, "um, " and continued to finger my wrists. 

Clenching my teeth, and with the veins starting out on my forehead, Iworked my pulses as hard as I could. 

 . . . . . 

"Ah, " he said, as I finished tying my tie; and he got up from the deskwhere he had been making notes of my disastrous case, and came over tome. "There is just one thing more. Sit down. "

I sat down. 

"Now cross your knees. "

I crossed my knees. He bent over me and gave me a sharp tap below theknee with the side of his hand. 

My chest may have disappointed him.... He may have disliked my back.... Possibly I was a complete failure with my pulses.... But I knew theknee-trick. 

This time he should not be disappointed. 

I was taking no risks. Almost before his hand reached my knee, my footshot out and took him fairly under the chin. His face suddenlydisappeared. 

"I haven't got _that_ disease, " I said cheerily. 

BACHELOR RELICS

"Do you happen to want, " I said to Henry, "an opera hat that doesn't op?At least it only works on one side. "

"No, " said Henry. 

"To any one who buys my opera hat for a large sum I am giving away foursquare yards of linoleum, a revolving book-case, two curtain rods, apair of spring-grip dumb-bells, and an extremely patent mouse-trap. "

"No, " said Henry again. 

"The mouse-trap, " I pleaded, "is unused. That is to say, no mouse hasused it yet. My mouse-trap has never been blooded. "

"I don't want it myself, " said Henry, "but I know a man who does. "

"Henry, you know everybody. For Heaven's sake introduce me to yourfriend. Why does he particularly want a mouse-trap?"

"He doesn't. He wants anything that's old. Old clothes, old carpets, anything that's old he'll buy. "

He seemed to be exactly the man I wanted. 

"Introduce me to your fellow clubman, " I said firmly. 

That evening I wrote to Henry's friend, Mr. Bennett. "Dear Sir, " Iwrote, "if you would call upon me to-morrow I should like to show yousome really old things, all genuine antiques. In particular I would callyour attention to an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship and amouse-trap of chaste and handsome design. I have also a few yards ofQueen Anne linoleum of a circular pattern which I think will please you. My James the First spring-grip dumb-bells and Louis Quatorzecurtain-rods are well known to connoisseurs. A genuine old cork bedroomsuite, comprising one bath-mat, will also be included in the sale. Yoursfaithfully. "

On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcardasking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10. 30 prompt. And at10. 30 prompt he came. 

I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and threehats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very sprucegentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than theopera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once. 

"Just tell me what you want to sell, " he said, whipping out apocket-book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything. "

I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with. 

"The revolving book-case, " I announced. 

"I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving book-cases now, " hesaid, as he made a note of it. 

"As a matter of fact, " I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It gotstuck some years ago. "

He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made anote of it. 

"Then the writing-desk. "

"The what?"

"The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire. "

"Walnut?" he said, tapping it. 

"Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not inthe wood but in the literary associations. "

"Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still--whose wasit?"

"Mine, " I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of mycoat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to aBell-push, ' my 'Thoughts on Asia, ' my----"

"Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpet, curtains----"

"Nothing else, " I said coldly. 

We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasmreturned to me. 

"The linoleum, " I said, with a wave of the hand. 

"Very much worn, " said Mr. Bennett. 

I called his attention to the piece under the bed. 

"Not under there, " I said. "I never walk on that piece. It's as good asnew. "

He made a note. "What else?" he said. 

I showed him round the collection. He saw the Louis Quatorzecurtain-rods, the cork bedroom suite, the Cæsarian nail-brush (quitebald), the antique shaving-mirror with genuine crack--he saw it all. Andthen we went back into the other rooms and found some more things forhim. 

"Yes, " he said, consulting his note-book. "And now how would you like meto buy these?"

"At a large price, " I said. "If you have brought your cheque-book I'lllend you a pen. "

"You want me to make you an offer? Otherwise I should sell them byauction for you, deducting ten per cent commission. "

"Not by auction, " I said impulsively. "I couldn't bear to know how much, or rather how little, my Georgian bureau fetched. It was there, as Ithink I told you, that I wrote my _Guide to the Round Pond_. Give me aninclusive price for the lot, and never, never let me know the details. "

He named an inclusive price. It was something under a hundred and fiftypounds. I shouldn't have minded that if it had only been a little overten pounds. But it wasn't. 

"Right, " I agreed. "And, oh, I was nearly forgetting. There's an oldopera hat of exquisite workmanship, which----"

"Ah, now, clothes had much better be sold by auction. Make a pile of allyou don't want and I'll send round a sack for them. I have an auctionsale every Wednesday. "

"Very well. Send round to-morrow. And you might--er--also send rounda--er--cheque for--quite so. Well, then, good morning. "

When he had gone I went into my bedroom and made a pile of my opera hat. It didn't look very impressive--hardly worth having a sack speciallysent round for it. To keep it company I collected an assortment ofclothes. It pained me to break up my wardrobe in this way, but I wantedthe bidding for my opera hat to be brisk, and a few preliminary suitswould warm the public up. Altogether it was a goodly pile when it wasdone. The opera hat perched on the top, half of it only at work. 

 . . . . . 

To-day I received from Mr. Bennett a cheque, a catalogue, and anaccount. The catalogue was marked "Lots 172-179. " Somehow I felt that myopera hat would be Lot 176. I turned to it in the account. 

"Lot 176--Six shillings. "

"It did well, " I said. "Perhaps in my heart of hearts I hoped for sevenand sixpence, but six shillings--yes, it was a good hat. "

And then I turned to the catalogue. 

"_Lot 176_--Frock-coat and vest, dress-coat and vest, ditto, pair oftrousers and opera hat. "

"_And opera hat. _" Well, well. At least it had the position of honour atthe end. My opera hat was starred. 

LORDS TEMPORAL

We have eight clocks, called after the kind people who gave them to us. Let me introduce you: William, Edward, Muriel, Enid, Alphonse, Percy, Henrietta, and John--a large family. 

"But how convenient, " said Celia. "Exactly one for each room. "

"Or two in each corner of the drawing-room. I don't suggest it; I justthrow out the idea. "

"Which is rejected. How shall we arrange which goes into which room?Let's pick up. I take William for the drawing-room; you take John foryour workroom; I take----"

"Not John, " I said gently. John is---- John overdoes it a trifle. Thereis too much of John; and he exposes his inside--which is not quite nice. 

"Well, whichever you like. Come on, let's begin. William. "

As it happened, I particularly wanted William. He has an absolutelynoiseless tick, such as is suitable to a room in which work is to bedone. I explained this to Celia. 

"What you want for the drawing-room, " I went on, "is a clock which ticksostentatiously, so that your visitors may be reminded of the flight oftime. Edward is a very loud breather. No guest could fail to noticeEdward. "

"William, " said Celia firmly. 

"William has a very delicate interior, " I pleaded. "You could neverattend to him properly. I have been thinking of William ever since wehad him, and I feel that I understand his case. "

"Very well, " said Celia, with sudden generosity; "Edward. You haveWilliam; I have Alphonse for the dining-room; you have John for yourbedroom; I have Enid for mine; you----"

"Not John, " I said gently. To be frank, John is improper. 

"Well, Percy, then. "

"Yes, Percy. He is young and fair. He shall sit on the chest of drawersand sing to my sock-suspenders. "

"Then Henrietta had better go in the spare room, and Muriel in Jane's. "

"Muriel is much too good for Jane, " I protested. "Besides, a servantwants an alarm clock to get her up in the morning. "

"You forget that Muriel cuckoos. At six o'clock she will cuckoo exactlysix times, and at the sixth 'oo' Jane brisks out of bed. "

I still felt a little doubtful, because the early morning is a bad timefor counting cuckoos, and I didn't see why Jane shouldn't brisk out atthe seventh "oo" by mistake one day. However, Jane is in Celia'sdepartment, and if Celia was satisfied I was. Besides, the only otherplace for Muriel was the bathroom; and there is something about acuckoo-clock in a bathroom which--well, one wants to be educated up toit. 

"And that, " said Celia gladly, "leaves the kitchen for John. " John, as Ithink I have said, displays his inside in a lamentable way. There is toomuch of John. 

"If Jane doesn't mind, " I added. "She may have been strictly broughtup. "

"She'll love him. John lacks reserve, but he is a good time-keeper. "

And so our eight friends were settled. But, alas, not for long. Ourdiscussion had taken place on the eve of Jane's arrival; and when sheturned up next day she brought with her, to our horror, a clock of herown--called, I think, Mother. At any rate, she was fond of it andrefused to throw it away. 

"And it's got an alarm, so it goes in her bedroom, " said Celia, "andMuriel goes into the kitchen. Jane loves it, because she comes from thecountry, and the cuckoo reminds her of home. That still leaves Johneating his head off. "

"And, moreover, showing people what happens to it, " I added severely. (Ithink I have already mentioned John's foible. )

"Well, there's only one thing for it; he must go under the spare-roombed. "

I tried to imagine John under the spare-room bed. 

"Suppose, " I said, "we had a nervous visitor ... And she looked underthe bed before getting into it ... And saw John.... It is a terriblethought, Celia. "

However, that is where he is. It is a lonely life for him, but we shallwind him up every week, and he will think that he is being of service tous. Indeed, he probably imagines that our guests prefer to sleep underthe bed. 

Now, with John at last arranged for, our family should have been happy;but three days ago I discovered that it was William who was going to bethe real trouble. To think of William, the pride of the flock, betrayingus!

As you may remember, William lives with me. He presides over the room wecall "the library" to visitors and "the master's room" to Jane. Hesmiles at me when I work. Ordinarily, when I want to know the time, Ilook at my watch; but the other morning I happened to glance at William. He said "twenty minutes past seven. " As I am never at work as early asthat, and as my watch said eleven-thirty, I guessed at once that Williamhad stopped. In the evening--having by that time found the key--I wentto wind him up. To my surprise he said "six-twenty-five. " I put my earto his chest and heard his gentle breathing. He was alive and goingwell. With a murmured apology I set him to the right time ... And by themorning he was three-quarters of an hour fast. 

Unlike John, William is reticent to a degree. With great difficulty Ifound my way to his insides, and then found that he had practically noneto speak of at all. Certainly he had no regulator. 

"What shall we do?" I asked Celia. 

"Leave him. And then, when you bring your guests in for a smoke, you cansay, 'Oh, don't go yet; this clock is five hours and twenty-threeminutes fast. '"

"Or six hours and thirty-seven minutes slow. I wonder which would soundbetter. Anyhow, he is much too beautiful to go under a bed. "

So we are leaving him. And when I am in the mood for beauty I look atWilliam's mahogany sides and am soothed into slumber again ... And whenI want to adjust my watch (which always loses a little), I creep underthe spare-room bed and consult John. John alone of all our family keepsthe correct time, and it is a pity that he alone must live inretirement. 

THE MISSING CARD

What I say is this: A man has his own work to do. He slaves at theoffice all day, earning a living for those dependent on him, and when hecomes home he may reasonably expect not to be bothered with domesticbusiness. I am sure you will agree with me. And you would go on to say, would you not, that, anyhow, the insuring of his servants might safelybe left to his wife? Of course you would! Thank you very much. 

I first spoke to Celia about the insuring of the staff some weeks ago. Our staff consists of Jane Parsons the cook, the first parlourmaid(Jane) and Parsons the upper housemaid. We call them collectively Jane. 

"By the way, " I said to Celia, "I suppose Jane is insured all right?"

"I was going to see about it to-morrow, " said Celia. 

I looked at her in surprise. It was just the sort of thing I might havesaid myself. 

"I hope she won't be unkind about it, " I went on. "If she objects topaying her share, tell her I am related to a solicitor. If she stillobjects, er--tell her we'll pay it ourselves. "

"I think it will be all right. Fortunately, she has no head forfigures. "

This is true. Jane is an excellent cook, and well worth the £75 a yearor whatever it is we pay her; but arithmetic gives her a headache. WhenCelia has finished dividing £75 by twelve, Jane is in a state ofcomplete nervous exhaustion, and is only too thankful to take thenine-and-sixpence that Celia hands over to her, without asking anyquestions. Indeed, _anything_ that the Government wished deducted fromJane's wages we could deduct with a minimum of friction--from income-taxto a dog-licence. A threepenny insurance would be child's play. 

Three weeks later I said to Celia--

"Has an inspector been to see Jane's card yet?"

"Jane's card?" she asked blankly. 

"The insurance card with the pretty stamps on. "

"No.... No.... Luckily. "

"You mean----"

"I was going to see about it to-morrow, " said Celia. 

I got up and paced the floor. "Really, " I murmured, "really. " I triedthe various chairs in the room, and finally went and stood with my backto the fire-place. In short, I behaved like a justly incensedmaster-of-the-house. 

"You know what happens, " I said, when I was calm again, "if we neglectthis duty which Parliament has laid upon us?"

"No. "

"We go to prison. At least, one of us does. I'm not quite sure which. "

"I hope it's you, " said Celia. 

"As a matter of fact I believe it is. However, we shall know when theinspector comes round. "

"If it's you, " she went on, "I shall send you in a file, with which youcan cut through your chains and escape. It will be concealed in a loafof bread, so that your gaolers shan't suspect. "

"Probably I shouldn't suspect either, until I had bitten on it suddenly. Perhaps you'd better not bother. It would be simpler if you got Jane'scard to-morrow instead. "

"But of course I will. That is to say, I'll tell Jane to get it herself. It's her cinema evening out. "

Once a week Jane leaves us and goes to a cinema. Her life is full ofvariety. 

Ten days elapsed, and then one evening I said---- At least I didn't. Before I could get it out Celia interrupted:

"No, not yet. You see, there's been a hitch. "

I curbed my anger and spoke calmly. 

"What sort of a hitch?"

"Well, Jane forgot last Wednesday, and I forgot to remind her thisWednesday. But _next_ Wednesday----"

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Well, if you'll tell me what to do I'll do it. "

"Well--er--you just--you--I mean--well, they'll tell you at thepost-office. "

"That's exactly how I keep explaining it to Jane, " said Celia. 

I looked at her mournfully. 

"What shall we do?" I asked. "I feel quite hopeless about it. It seemstoo late now to do anything with Jane. Let's get a new staff and beginagain properly. "

"Lose Jane?" cried Celia. "I'd sooner go to prison--I mean I'd sooner_you_ went to prison. Why can't you be a man and do something?"

Celia doesn't seem to realize that I married her with the sole idea ofgetting free of all this sort of bother. As it is, I nearly die once ayear in the attempt to fill up my income-tax form. Any traffic ininsurance cards would, my doctor says, be absolutely fatal. 

However, something had to be done. Last week I went into a neighbouringpost-office in order to send a telegram. The post-office is an annexe ofthe grocer's where the sardines come from on Jane's cinema evening. Having sent the telegram, I took a sudden desperate resolve. I--Imyself--would do something. 

"I want, " I said bravely, "an insurance stamp. "

"Sixpenny or sevenpenny?" said the girl, trying to put me off my balanceat the very beginning. 

"What's the difference?" I asked. "You needn't say a penny, because thatis obvious. "

However, she had no wish to be funny. 

"Sevenpenny for men-servants, sixpenny for women, " she explained. 

I wasn't going to give away our domestic arrangements to so near aneighbour. 

"Three sixpenny and four sevenpenny, " I said casually, flicking the dustoff my shoes with a handkerchief. "Tut, tut, I was forgetting Thomas, " Iadded. "Five sevenpenny. "

I took the stamps home and showered them on Celia. 

"You see, " I said, "it's not really difficult. "

"Oh, you angel! What do I do with them?"

"Stick them on Jane, " I said grandly. "Dot them about the house. Stampyour letters with them--I can always get you plenty more. "

"Didn't you get a card too?"

"N-no. No, I didn't. The fact is, it's your turn now, Celia. _You_ getthe card. "

"Oh, all right. I--er--suppose you just ask for a--a card?"

"I suppose so. And--er--choose a doctor, and--er--decide on an approvedsociety, and--er--explain why it is you hadn't got a card before, and--er---- Well, anyhow, it's your turn now, Celia. "

"It's really still Jane's turn, " said Celia, "only she's so stupid aboutit. "

But she turned out to be not so stupid as we thought. For yesterdaythere came a ring at the bell. Feeling instinctively that it was theinspector, Celia and I got behind the sofa ... And emerged some minuteslater to find Jane alone in the room. 

"Somebody come to see about an insurance card or something, " she said. "I said you were both out, and would he come to-morrow. "

Technically I suppose we _were_ both out. That is, we were notreceiving. 

"Thank you, Jane, " I said stiffly. I turned to Celia. "There you are, " Isaid. "To-morrow something _must_ be done. "

"I always said I'd do it to-morrow, " said Celia. 

SILVER LININGS

"We want some more coal, " said Celia suddenly at breakfast. 

"Sorry, " I said, engrossed in my paper, and I passed her the marmalade. 

"More coal, " she repeated. 

I pushed across the toast. 

Celia sighed and held up her hand. 

"Please may I speak to you a moment?" she said, trying to snap herfingers. "Good; I've caught his eye. We want----"

"I'm awfully sorry. What is it?"

"We want some more coal. Never mind this once whether Inman beat Hobbsor not. Just help me. "

"Celia, you've been reading the paper, " I said in surprise. "I thoughtyou only read the _feuill_--the serial story. How did you know Inman wasplaying Hobbs?"

"Well, Poulton or Carpentier or whoever it is. Look here, we're out ofcoal. What shall I do?"

"That's easy. Order some more. What do you do when you're out ofnutmegs?"

"It depends if the nutmeg porters are striking. "

"Striking! Good heavens, I never thought about that. " I glanced hastilydown the headlines of my paper. "Celia, this is serious. I shall have tothink about this seriously. Will you order a fire in the library? Ishall retire to the library and think this over. "

"You can retire to the library, but you can't have a fire there. There'sonly just enough for the kitchen for two days. "

"Then come and chaperon me in the kitchen. Don't leave me alone withJane. You and I and Jane will assemble round the oven and discuss thematter. B-r-r-r. It's cold. "

"Not the kitchen. I'll assemble with you round the electric lightsomewhere. Come on. "

We went into the library and rallied round a wax vesta. It was aterribly cold morning. 

"I can't think like this, " I said, after fifteen seconds' reflection. "I'm going to the office. There's a fire there, anyway. "

"You wouldn't like a nice secretary, " said Celia timidly, "or an officegirl, or somebody to lick the stamps?"

"I should never do any work if you came, " I said, looking at herthoughtfully. "Do come. "

"No, I shall be all right. I've got shopping to do this morning, and I'mgoing out to lunch, and I can pay some calls afterwards. "

"Right. And you might find out what other people are doing, the peopleyou call on. And--er--if you _should_ be left alone in the drawing-rooma moment ... And the coal-box is at all adjacent.... You'll have yourmuff with you, you see, and---- Well, I leave that to you. Do what youcan. "

I had a good day at the office and have never been so loth to leave. Ialways felt I should get to like my work some time. I arrived home againabout six. Celia was a trifle later, and I met her on the mat as shecame in. 

"Any luck?" I asked eagerly, feeling in her muff. "Dash it, Celia, thereare nothing but hands here. Do you mean to say you didn't pick upanything at all?"

"Only information, " she said, leading the way into the drawing-room. "Hallo, what's this? A fire!"

"A small involuntary contribution from the office. I brought it homeunder my hat. Well, what's the news?"

"That if we want any coal we shall have to fetch it ourselves. And wecan get it in small amounts from greengrocers. Why greengrocers, I don'tknow. "

"I suppose they have to have fires to force the cabbages. But what aboutthe striking coal porters? If you do their job, won't they picket you orpickaxe you or something?"

"Oh, of course, I should hate to go alone. But I shall be all right ifyou come with me. "

Celia's faith in me is very touching. I am not quite so confident aboutmyself. No doubt I could protect her easily against five or six greatbrawny hulking porters ... Armed with coal-hammers ... But I amseriously doubtful whether a dozen or so, aided with a little luck, mightn't get the better of me. 

"Don't let us be rash, " I said thoughtfully. "Don't let us infuriatethem. "

"You aren't afraid of a striker?" asked Celia in amazement. 

"Of an ordinary striker, no. In a strike of bank-clerks, or--orchess-players, or professional skeletons, I should be a lion among theblacklegs; but there is something about the very word coal porterwhich---- You know, I really think this is a case where the British Armymight help us. We have been very good to it. "

The British Army, I should explain, has been walking out with Janelately. When we go away for week-ends we let the British Army drop in tosupper. Luckily it neither smokes nor drinks nor takes any greatinterest in books. It is a great relief, on your week-ends in thecountry, to _know_ that the British Army is dropping in to supper, whenotherwise you might only have suspected it. I may say that we are ratherhoping to get a position in the Army Recruiting film on the strength ofthis hospitality. 

"Let the British Army go, " I said. "We've been very kind to him. "

"I fancy Jane has left the service. I don't know why. "

"Probably they quarrelled because she gave him caviare two nightsrunning, " I said. "Well, I suppose I shall have to go. But it will be noplace for women. To-morrow afternoon I will sally forth alone to do it. But, " I added, "I shall probably return with two coal porters clinginground my neck. Order tea for three. "

Next evening, after a warm and busy day at the office, I put on mytop-hat and tail-coat and went out. If there was any accident I wasdetermined to be described in the papers as "the body of a well-dressedman"; to go down to history as "the remains of a shabbily dressedindividual" would be too depressing. Beautifully clothed, I jumped intoa taxi and drove to Celia's greengrocer. Celia herself was keeping warmby paying still more calls. 

"I want, " I said nervously, "a hundredweight of coal and a cauliflower. "This was my own idea. I intended to place the cauliflower on the top ofa sack, and so to deceive any too-inquisitive coal porter. "No, no, " Ishould say, "not coal; nice cauliflowers for Sunday's dinner. "

"Can't deliver the coal, " said the greengrocer. 

"I'm going to take it with me, " I explained. 

He went round to a yard at the back. I motioned my taxi along andfollowed him at the head of three small boys who had never seen atop-hat and a cauliflower so close together. We got the sack intoposition. 

"Come, come, " I said to the driver, "haven't you ever seen adressing-case before? Give us a hand with it or I shall miss my trainand be late for dinner. "

He grinned and gave a hand. I paid the greengrocer, pressed thecauliflower into the hand of the smallest boy, and drove off.... 

It was absurdly easy. 

There was no gore at all. 

 . . . . . 

"There!" I said to Celia when she came back. "And when that's done I'llget you some more. "

"Hooray! And yet, " she went on, "I'm almost sorry. You see, I wasworking off my calls so nicely, and you'd been having some quite busydays at the office, hadn't you?"

THE ORDER OF THE BATH

"We must really do something about the bath, " said Celia. 

"We must, " I agreed. 

At present what we do is this. Punctually at six-thirty or nine, orwhenever it is, Celia goes in to make herself clean and beautiful forthe new day, while I amuse myself with a razor. After a quarter of anhour or so she gives a whistle to imply that the bathroom is now vacant, and I give another one to indicate that I have only cut myself once. Ithen go hopefully in and find that the bath is half full of water;whereupon I go back to my room and engage in Dr. Hugh de Sélincourt'sphysical exercises for the middle-aged. After these are over I takeanother look at the bath, discover that it is now three-eighths full, and return to my room and busy myself with Dr. Archibald Marshall'smental drill for busy men. By the time I have committed three Odes ofHorace to memory, it may be low tide or it may not; if not, I sit on theedge of the bath with the daily paper and read about the lateststrike--my mind occupied equally with wondering when the water is goingout and when the bricklayers are. And the thought that Celia is now inthe dining-room eating more than her share of the toast does not consoleme in the least. 

"Yes, " I said, "it's absurd to go on like this. You had better see aboutit to-day, Celia. "

"I don't think--I mean, I think--you know, it's really _your_ turn to dosomething for the bathroom. "

"What do you mean, _my_ turn? Didn't I buy the glass shelves for it?You'd never even heard of glass shelves. "

"Well, who put them up after they'd been lying about for a month?" saidCelia. "I did. "

"And who bumped his head against them the next day? I did. "

"Yes, but that wasn't really a _useful_ thing to do. It's your turn tobe useful. "

"Celia, this is mutiny. All household matters are supposed to be lookedafter by you. I do the brain work; I earn the money; I cannot bebothered with these little domestic worries. I have said so before. "

"I sort of thought you had. "

You know, I am afraid that is true. 

"After all, " she went on, "the drinks are in your department. "

"Hock, perhaps, " I said; "soapy water, no. There is a difference. "

"Not very much, " said Celia. 

By the end of another week I was getting seriously alarmed. I began tofear that unless I watched it very carefully I should be improvingmyself too much. 

"While the water was running out this morning, " I said to Celia, as Istarted my breakfast just about lunch-time, "I got _Paradise Lost_ offby heart, and made five hundred and ninety-six revolutions with the backpaws. And then it was time to shave myself again. What a life for a busyman!"

"I don't know if you know that it's no----"

"Begin again, " I said. 

"--that it's no good waiting for the last inch or two to go out byitself. Because it won't. You have to--to _hoosh_ it out. "

"I do. And I sit on the taps looking like a full moon and try to draw itout. But it's no good. We had a neap tide to-day and I had to hoosh fourinches. Jolly. "

Celia gave a sigh of resignation. 

"All right, " she said, "I'll go to the plumber to-day. "

"Not the plumber, " I begged. "On the contrary. The plumber is the manwho _stops_ the leaks. What we really want is an unplumber. "

We fell into silence again. 

"But how silly we are!" cried Celia suddenly. "Of course!"

"What's the matter now?"

"The bath is the _landlord's_ business! Write and tell him. "

"But--but what shall I say?" Somehow I knew Celia would put it on to me. 

"Why, just--_say_. When you're paying the rent, you know. "

"I--I see. "

I retired to the library and thought it out. I hate writing businessletters. The result is a mixture of formality and chattiness which seemsto me all wrong. 

My first letter to the landlord went like this:--

"DEAR SIR, --I enclose cheque in payment of last quarter's rent. Our bathwon't run out properly. Yours faithfully. "

It is difficult to say just what is wrong with that letter, and yet itis obvious that something has happened to it. It isn't _right_. I triedagain. 

"DEAR SIR, --Enclosed please find cheque in payment of enclosed account. I must ask you either to enlarge the exit to our bath or to supply anemergency door. At present my morning and evening baths are in seriousdanger of clashing. Yours faithfully. "

My third attempt had more sting in it:--

"DEAR SIR, --Unless you do something to our bath I cannot send youenclosed cheque in payment of enclosed account. Otherwise I would have. Yours faithfully. "

At this point I whistled to Celia and laid the letters before her. 

"You see what it is, " I said. "I'm not quite getting the note. "

"But you're so abrupt, " she said. "You must remember that this is allcoming quite as a surprise to him. You want to lead up to it moregradually. "

"Ah, perhaps you're right. Let's try again. "

I tried again, with this result:--

"DEAR SIR, --In sending you a cheque in payment of last quarter's rent Ifeel I must tell you how comfortable we are here. The onlyinconvenience--and it is indeed a trifling one, dear Sir--which we haveexperienced is in connection with the bathroom. Elegantly appointed andspacious as this room is, commodious as we find the actual bath itself, yet we feel that in the matter of the waste-pipe the high standard ofefficiency so discernible elsewhere is sadly lacking. Were I alone Ishould not complain; but unfortunately there are two of us; and, for thesecond one, the weariness of waiting while the waters of the first bathexude drop by drop is almost more than can be borne. I speak withknowledge, for it is I who----"

I tore the letter up and turned to Celia. 

"I'm a fool, " I said. "I've just thought of something which will save meall this rotten business every morning. "

"I'm so glad. What is it?"

"Why, of course--in future _I_ will go to the bath first. "

And I do. It is a ridiculously simple solution, and I cannot think whyit never occurred to me before. 

A TRUNK CALL

Last Wednesday, being the anniversary of the Wednesday before, Celiagave me a present of a door-knocker. The knocker was in the shape of anelephant's head (not life-size); and by bumping the animal's trunkagainst his chin you could produce a small brass noise. 

"It's for the library, " she explained eagerly. "You're going to workthere this morning, aren't you?"

"Yes, I shall be very busy, " I said in my busy voice. 

"Well, just put it up before you start, and then if I _have_ tointerrupt you for anything important, I can knock with it. _Do_ say youlove it. "

"It's a dear, and so are you. Come along, let's put it up. "

I got a small screw-driver, and with very little loss of blood managedto screw it into the door. Some people are born screwists, some are not. I am one of the nots. 

"It's rather sideways, " said Celia doubtfully. 

"Osso erry, " I said. 

"What?"

I took my knuckle from my mouth. 

"Not so very, " I repeated. 

"I wish it had been straight. "

"So do I; but it's too late now. You have to leave these things verylargely to the screw-driver. Besides, elephants often do have theirheads sideways; I've noticed it at the Zoo. "

"Well, never mind. I think it's very clever of you to do it at all. Nowthen, you go in, and I'll knock and see if you hear. "

I went in and shut the door, Celia remaining outside. After fiveseconds, having heard nothing, but not wishing to disappoint her, Isaid, "Come in, " in the voice of one who has been suddenly disturbed bya loud "rat-tat. "

"I haven't knocked yet, " said Celia from the other side of the door. 

"Why not?"

"I was admiring him. He _is_ jolly. Do come and look at him again. "

I went out and looked at him again. He really gave an air to the librarydoor. 

"His face is rather dirty, " said Celia. "I think he wants some brasspolish and a--and a bun. "

She ran off to the kitchen. I remained behind with Jumbo and had alittle practice. The knock was not altogether convincing, owing to thefact that his chin was too receding for his trunk to get at it properly. I could hear it quite easily on my own side of the door, but I feltrather doubtful whether the sound would penetrate into the room. Thenatural noise of the elephant--roar, bark, whistle, or whatever it is--Ihave never heard, but I am told it is very terrible to denizens of thejungle. Jumbo's cry would not have alarmed an ant. 

Celia came back with flannels and things and washed Jumbo's face. 

"There!" she said. "Now his mother would love him again. " Veryconfidently she propelled his trunk against his chin and added, "Comein. "

"You can hear it quite plainly, " I said quickly. 

"It doesn't re--rever--reverberate--is that the word?" said Celia, "butit's quite a distinctive noise. I'm sure you'd hear it. "

"I'm sure I should. Let's try. "

"Not now. I'll try later on, when you aren't expecting it. Besides, youmust begin your work. Good-bye. Work hard. " She pushed me in and shutthe door. 

I began to work. 

I work best on the sofa; I think most clearly in what appears to thehasty observer to be an attitude of rest. But I am not sure that Celiareally understands this yet. Accordingly, when a knock comes at the doorI jump to my feet, ruffle my hair, and stride up and down the room withone hand on my brow. "Come in, " I call impatiently, and Celia finds meabsolutely in the throes. If there should chance to be a second knocklater on, I make a sprint for the writing-desk, seize pen and paper, upset the ink or not as it happens, and present to any one coming in atthe door the most thoroughly engrossed back in London. 

But that was in the good old days of knuckle-knocking. On thisparticular morning I had hardly written more than a couple of thousandwords--I mean I had hardly got the cushions at the back of my headcomfortably settled when Celia came in. 

"Well?" she said eagerly. 

I struggled out of the sofa. 

"What is it?" I asked sternly. 

"Did you hear it all right?"

"I didn't hear anything. "

"Oh!" she said in great disappointment. "But perhaps you were asleep, "she went on hopefully. 

"Certainly not. I was working. "

"Did I interrupt you?"

"You did rather; but it doesn't matter. "

"Oh, well, I won't do it again--unless I really have to. Good-bye, andgood luck. "

She went out and I returned to my sofa. After an hour or so my mindbegan to get to work, and I got up and walked slowly up and down theroom. The gentle exercise seemed to stimulate me. Seeing my new putterin the corner of the room, I took it up (my brain full of other things)and, dropping a golf ball on the carpet, began to practise. After fiveor ten minutes, my ideas being now quite clear, I was just about tosubstitute the pen for the putter when Celia came in. 

"Oh!" she said. "Are--are you busy?"

I turned round from a difficult putt with the club in my hand. 

"Very, " I said. "What is it?"

"I don't want to disturb you if you're working----"

"I am. "

"But I just wondered if you--if you liked artichokes. "

I looked at her coldly. 

"I will fill in your confession book another time, " I said stiffly, andI sat down with dignity at my desk and dipped the putter in the ink. 

"It's for dinner to-night, " said Celia persuasively. "Do say. Because Idon't want to eat them all by myself. "

I saw that I should have to humour her. 

"If it's a Jerusalem artichoke you mean, yes, " I said; "the other sort, no. J. Arthur Choke I love. "

"Right-o. Sorry for interrupting. " And then as she went to the door, "You _did_ hear Jumbo this time, didn't you?"

"I believe that's the only reason you came in for. "

"Well, one of them. "

"Are you coming in again?"

"Don't know, " she smiled. "Depends if I can think of an excuse. "

"Right, " I said. "In that case----"

There was nothing else for it; I took up my pen and began to work. 

But I have a suggestion to make to Celia. At present, although Jumbo isreally mine, _she_ is having all the fun with him. And as long as Jumbois on the outside of the door there can never rise an occasion when Ishould want to use him. My idea is that I should unscrew Jumbo and puthim on the _inside_ of the door, so that I can knock when I come out. 

And then when Celia wants to come in she will warn me in theold-fashioned way with her knuckles ... And I shall have time to dosomething about it. 

OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES

THE PARTING GUEST

When nice people ask me to their houses for the week-end, I reply that Ishall be delighted to come, but that pressure of work will prevent mystaying beyond Tuesday. Sometimes, in spite of this, they try to kick meout on the Monday; and if I find that they are serious about it I maypossibly consent to go by an evening train. In any case, it always seemsto me a pity to have to leave a house just as you are beginning to knowyour way to the bathroom. 

"Is the 9. 25 too early for you?" said Charles on Sunday night _à propos_of nothing that I had said. 

"Not if it's in the evening, " I answered. 

"It's in the morning. "

"Then it's much too early. I never travel before breakfast. But why doyou ask?"

"Well, I've got to ride over to Newtown to-morrow----"

"To-morrow?" I said in surprise. "Aren't we talking about Tuesday?"

It appeared that we weren't. It also came out that Charles and his wife, not anticipating the pleasure of my company beyond Monday, had arrangedto ride over the downs to Newtown to inspect a horse. They would not beback until the evening. 

"But that's all right, Charles, " I said. "If you have a spare horse, asteady one which doesn't wobble when it canters, I will ride with you. "

"There's only the old pony, " said Charles, "and he will be wanted todrive you to the station. "

"Not until Tuesday, " I pointed out. 

Charles ignored this remark altogether. 

"You couldn't ride Joseph, anyway, " he said. 

"Then I might run beside you, holding on to your stirrup. My ancestorsalways went into battle like that. We are still good runners. "

Charles turned over some more pages of his timetable. 

"There is a 10. 41, " he announced. 

"Just when I shall be getting to like you, " I sighed. 

"Molly and I have to be off by ten. If you caught the 10. 41, you wouldwant to leave here by a quarter past. "

"I shouldn't _want_ to leave, " I said reproachfully; "I should go withthe greatest regret. "

"The 9. 25, of course, gets you up to town much earlier. "

"Some such idea, no doubt, would account for its starting before the10. 41. What have you at about 4. 30?"

"If you don't mind changing at Plimton, there's a 10. 5----"

I got up and lit my candle. 

"Let's wait till to-morrow and see what the weather's like, " I saidsleepily. "I am not a proud man, but after what you've said, and if it'sat all wet, I may actually be glad to catch an early train. " And Imarched upstairs to bed. 

However, a wonderful blue sky next morning made any talk of Londonutterly offensive. My host and hostess had finished breakfast by thetime I got down, and I was just beginning my own when the sound of thehorses on the gravel brought me out. 

"I'm sorry we've got to dash off like this, " said Mrs. Charles, smilingat me from the back of Pompey. "Don't you be in any hurry to go. Thereare plenty of trains. "

"Thank you. It would be a shame to leave the country on a morning likethis, wouldn't it? I shall take a stroll over the hills before lunch, and sit about in the garden in the afternoon. There's a train at five, Ithink. "

"We shan't be back by then, I'm afraid, so this will be good-bye. "

I made my farewells, and Pompey, who was rather fresh, went off sidewaysdown the drive. This left me alone with Charles. 

"Good-bye, Charles, " I said, patting him with one hand and his horsewith the other. "Don't you bother about me. I shall be quite happy bymyself. "

He looked at me with a curious smile and was apparently about to saysomething, when Cæsar suddenly caught sight of my stockings. These, though in reality perfectly tasteful, might well come as a surprise to ayoung horse, and Cæsar bolted down the drive to tell Pompey about it. Iwaved to them all from the distance and returned to my breakfast. 

After breakfast I lit a pipe and strolled outside. As I stood at thedoor drinking in the beauty of the morning I was the victim of a curiousillusion. It seemed to me that outside the front door was thepony-cart--Joseph in the shafts, the gardener's boy holding the reins, and by the side of the boy my bag!

"We'll only just have time, sir, " said the boy. 

"But--but I'm going by the five train, " I stammered. 

"Well, sir, I shall be over at Newtown this afternoon--with the cart. "

I did not like to ask him why, but I thought I knew. It was, I toldmyself, to fetch back the horse which Charles was going over to inspect, the horse to which I had to give up my room that night. 

"Very well, " I said. "Take the bag now and leave it in the cloak-room. I'll walk in later. " What the etiquette was when your host gave you ahint by sending your bag to the station and going away himself, I didnot know. But however many bags he packed and however many horses heinspected, I was not to be moved till the five o'clock train. 

Half an hour after my bag was gone I made a discovery. It was that, whenI started walking to the five o'clock train, I should have to start inpumps.... 

 . . . . . 

"My dear Charles, " I wrote that night, "it was delightful to see youthis week-end, and I only wish I could have stayed with you longer, but, as you know, I had to dash up to town by the five train to inspect amule. I am sorry to say that a slight accident happened just before Ileft you. In the general way, when I catch an afternoon train, I like topack my bag overnight, but on this occasion I did not begin until ninein the morning. This only left me eight hours, and the result was thatin my hurry I packed my shoes by mistake, and had to borrow a pair ofyours in which to walk to the station. _I will bring them down with menext time I come. _"

I may say that they are unusually good shoes, and if Charles doesn'twant me he must at least want them. So I am expecting another invitationby every post. When it arrives I shall reply that I shall be delightedto come, but that, alas! pressure of work will prevent my staying beyondTuesday. 

THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER

Really I know nothing about flowers. By a bit of luck, James, mygardener, whom I pay half a crown a week for combing the beds, knowsnothing about them either; so my ignorance remains undiscovered. But inother people's gardens I have to make something of an effort to keep upappearances. Without flattering myself I may say that I have acquired acertain manner; I give the impression of the garden lover, or the manwith shares in a seed company, or--or something. 

For instance, at Creek Cottage, Mrs. Atherley will say to me, "That's an_Amphilobertus Gemini_, " pointing to something which I hadn't noticedbehind a rake. 

"I am not a bit surprised, " I say calmly. 

"And a _Gladiophinium Banksii_ next to it. "

"I suspected it, " I confess in a hoarse whisper. 

Towards flowers whose names I know I adopt a different tone. 

"Aren't you surprised to see daffodils out so early?" says Mrs. Atherleywith pride. 

"There are lots out in London, " I mention casually. "In the shops. "

"So there are grapes, " says Miss Atherley. 

"I was not talking about grapes, " I reply stiffly. 

However, at Creek Cottage just now I can afford to be natural; for it isnot gardening which comes under discussion these days, butlandscape-gardening, and any one can be an authority on that. TheAtherleys, fired by my tales of Sandringham, Chatsworth, Arundel, andother places where I am constantly spending the week-end, arereadjusting their two-acre field. In future it will not be called "thegarden, " but "the grounds. "

I was privileged to be shown over the grounds on my last visit to CreekCottage. 

"Here, " said Mrs. Atherley, "we are having a plantation. It will keepthe wind off; and we shall often sit here in the early days of summer. That's a weeping ash in the middle. There's another one over there. They'll be lovely, you know. "

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a bit of black stick on the left;which, even more than the other trees, gave the impression of havingbeen left there by the gardener while he went for his lunch. 

"That's a weeping willow. "

"This is rather a tearful corner of the grounds, " apologized MissAtherley. "We'll show you something brighter directly. Lookthere--that's the oak in which King Charles lay hid. At least, it willbe when it's grown a bit. "

"Let's go on to the shrubbery, " said Mrs. Atherley. "We are having a newgrass path from here to the shrubbery. It's going to be called Henry'sWalk. "

Miss Atherley has a small brother called Henry. Also there were eightKings of England called Henry. Many a time and oft one of those nineHenrys has paced up and down this grassy walk, his head bent, his handsclasped behind his back; while behind his furrowed brow, who shall saywhat world-schemes were hatching? Is it the thought of Wolsey whichmakes him frown--or is he wondering where he left his catapult? Ah! whocan tell us? Let us leave a veil of mystery over it ... For the sake ofthe next visitor. 

"The shrubbery, " said Mrs. Atherley proudly, waving her hand at a coupleof laurel bushes and a--I've forgotten its name now, but it is one ofthe few shrubs I really know. 

"And if you're a gentleman, " said Miss Atherley, "and want to get askedhere again, you'll always _call_ it the shrubbery. "

"Really, I don't see what else you could call it, " I said, wishing to beasked down again. 

"The patch. "

"True, " I said. "I mean, Nonsense. "

I was rather late for breakfast next morning; a pity on such a lovelyspring day. 

"I'm so sorry, " I began, "but I was looking at the shrubbery from mywindow and I quite forgot the time. "

"Good, " said Miss Atherley. 

"I must thank you for putting me in such a perfect room for it, " I went on, warming to my subject. "One can actually see the shrubs--er--shrubbing. Theplantation, too, seems a little thicker to me than yesterday. "

"I expect it is. "

"In fact, the tennis lawn----" I looked round anxiously. I had a suddenfear that it might be the new deer-park. "It still is the tennis lawn?"I asked. 

"Yes. Why, what about it?"

"I was only going to say the tennis lawn had quite a lot of shadows onit. Oh, there's no doubt that the plantation is really assertingitself. "

Eleven o'clock found me strolling in the grounds with Miss Atherley. 

"You know, " I said, as we paced Henry's Walk together, "the one thingthe plantation wants is for a bird to nest in it. That is the hall-markof a plantation. "

"It's mother's birthday to-morrow. Wouldn't it be a lovely surprise forher?"

"It would, indeed. Unfortunately this is a matter in which you requirethe co-operation of a feathered friend. "

"Couldn't you try to persuade a bird to build a nest in the weeping ash?Just for this once?"

"You're asking me a very difficult thing, " I said doubtfully. "Anythingelse I would do cheerfully for you; but to dictate to a bird on such avery domestic affair---- No, I'm afraid I must refuse. "

"It need only just _begin_ to build one, " pleaded Miss Atherley, "because mother's going up to town by your train to-morrow. As soon asshe's out of the house the bird can go back anywhere else it likesbetter. "

"I will put that to any bird I see to-day, " I said, "but I am doubtful. "

"Oh, well, " sighed Miss Atherley, "never mind. "

 . . . . . 

"What do you think?" cried Mrs. Atherley as she came in to breakfastnext day. "There's a bird been nesting in the plantation!"

Miss Atherley looked at me in undisguised admiration. I looked quitesurprised--I know I did. 

"Well, well!" I said. 

"You must come out afterwards and see the nest and tell me what bird itis. There are three eggs in it. I am afraid I don't know much aboutthese things. "

"I'm glad, " I said thankfully. "I mean, I shall be glad to. "

We went out eagerly after breakfast. On about the only tree in theplantation with a fork to it a nest balanced precariously. It had in itthree pale-blue eggs splotched with light brown. It appeared to be ablackbird's nest with another egg or two to come. 

"It's been very quick about it, " said Miss Atherley. 

"Of our feathered bipeds, " I said, frowning at her, "the blackbird isnotoriously the most hasty. "

"Isn't it lovely?" said Mrs. Atherley. 

She was still talking about it as she climbed into the trap which was totake us to the station. 

"One moment, " I said, "I've forgotten something. " I dashed into thehouse and out by a side door, and then sprinted for the plantation. Itook the nest from the weeping and over-weighted ash and put itcarefully back in the hedge by the tennis-lawn. Then I returned moreleisurely to the house. 

If you ever want a job of landscape-gardening thoroughly well done, youcan always rely upon me. 

THE SAME OLD STORY

We stood in a circle round the parrot's cage and gazed with interest atits occupant. She (Evangeline) was balancing easily on one leg, whilewith the other leg and her beak she tried to peel a monkey-nut. Thereare some of us who hate to be watched at meals, particularly whendealing with the dessert, but Evangeline is not of our number. 

"There, " said Mrs. Atherley, "isn't she a beauty?"

I felt that, as the last to be introduced, I ought to say something. 

"What do you say to a parrot?" I whispered to Miss Atherley. 

"Have a banana, " suggested Reggie. 

"I believe you say, 'Scratch-a-poll, '" said Miss Atherley, "but I don'tknow why. "

"Isn't that rather dangerous? Suppose it retorted 'Scratch your own, ' Ishouldn't know a bit how to go on. "

"It can't talk, " said Reggie. "It's quite a baby--only seven months old. But it's no good showing it your watch; you must think of some other wayof amusing it. "

"Break it to me, Reggie. Have I been asked down solely to amuse theparrot, or did any of you others want to see me?"

"Only the parrot, " said Reggie. 

Evangeline paid no attention to us. She continued to wrestle with themonkey-nut. I should say that she was a bird not easily amused. 

"Can't it really talk at all?" I asked Mrs. Atherley. 

"Not yet. You see, she's only just come over from South America, andisn't used to the climate yet. "

"But that's just the person you'd expect to talk a lot about theweather. I believe you've been had. Write a little note to thepoulterers and ask if you can change it. You've got a bad one bymistake. "

"We got it as a bird, " said Mrs. Atherley with dignity, "not as agramophone. "

The next morning Evangeline was as silent as ever. Miss Atherley and Isurveyed it after breakfast. It was still grappling with a monkey-nut, but no doubt a different one. 

"Isn't it _ever_ going to talk?" I asked. "Really, I thought parrotswere continually chatting. "

"Yes, but they have to be taught--just like you teach a baby. "

"Are you sure? I quite see that you have to teach them any specialthings you want them to say, but I thought they were all born with a fewsimple obvious remarks, like 'Poor Polly, ' or--or 'Dash Lloyd George. '"

"I don't think so, " said Miss Atherley. "Not the green ones. "

At dinner that evening, Mr. Atherley being now with us, the question ofEvangeline's education was seriously considered. 

"The only proper method, " began Mr. Atherley----"By the way, " he said, turning to me, "you don't know anything about parrots, do you?"

"No, " I said. "You can go on quite safely. "

"The only proper method of teaching a parrot--I got this from a man inthe City this morning--is to give her a word at a time, and to go onrepeating it over and over again until she's got hold of it. "

"And after that the parrot goes on repeating it over and over againuntil you've got sick of it, " said Reggie. 

"Then we shall have to be very careful what word we choose, " said Mrs. Atherley. 

"What is your favourite word?"

"Well, really----"

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" asked Archie. 

"This is quite impossible. Every word by itself seems so silly. "

"Not 'home' and 'mother, '" I said reproachfully. 

"You shall recite your little piece in the drawing-room afterwards, "said Miss Atherley to me. "Think of something sensible now. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Atherley. "What's the latest word from London?"

"Kikuyu. "

"What?"

"I can't say it again, " I protested. 

"If you can't even say it twice, it's no good for Evangeline. "

A thoughtful silence fell upon us. 

"Have you fixed on a name for her yet?" Miss Atherley asked her mother. 

"Evangeline, of course. "

"No, I mean a name for her to call _you_. Because if she's going to callyou 'Auntie' or 'Darling, ' or whatever you decide on, you'd better startby teaching her that. "

And then I had a brilliant idea. 

"I've got the very word, " I said. "It's 'hallo. ' You see, it's apleasant form of greeting to any stranger, and it will go perfectly withthe next word that she's taught, whatever it may be. "

"Supposing it's 'wardrobe, '" suggested Reggie, "or 'sardine'?"

"Why not? 'Hallo, Sardine' is the perfect title for a _revue_. Witty, subtle, neat--probably the great brain of the Revue King has alreadyevolved it, and is planning the opening scene. "

"Yes, 'hallo' isn't at all bad, " said Mr. Atherley. "Anyway, it's betterthan 'Poor Polly, ' which is simply morbid. Let's fix on 'hallo. '"

"Good, " said Mrs. Atherley. 

Evangeline said nothing, being asleep under her blanket. 

 . . . . . 

I was down first next morning, having forgotten to wind up my watchovernight. Longing for company, I took the blanket off Evangeline's cageand introduced her to the world again. She stirred sleepily, opened hereyes and blinked at me. 

"Hallo, Evangeline, " I said. 

She made no reply. 

Suddenly a splendid scheme occurred to me. I would teach Evangeline herword now. How it would surprise the others when they came down and said"Hallo" to her, to find themselves promptly answered back!

"Evangeline, " I said, "listen. Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo. " I stopped amoment and went on more slowly. "Hallo--hallo--hallo. "

It was dull work. 

"Hallo, " I said, "hallo--hallo--hallo, " and then very distinctly, "Hal-_lo_. "

Evangeline looked at me with an utterly bored face. 

"Hallo, " I said, "hallo--hallo. "

She picked up a monkey-nut and ate it languidly. 

"Hallo, " I went on, "hallo, hallo ... Hallo, _hallo_, HALLO, HALLO ... Hallo, hallo----"

She dropped her nut and roused herself for a moment. 

"Number engaged, " she snapped, and took another nut. 

 . . . . . 

You needn't believe this. The others didn't when I told them. 

THE SPREADING WALNUT TREE

We were having breakfast in the garden with the wasps, and Peter wasenlarging on the beauties of the country round his new week-end cottage. 

"Then there's Hilderton, " he said; "that's a lovely little village, I'mtold. We might explore it to-morrow. "

Celia woke up suddenly. 

"Is Hilderton near here?" she asked in surprise. "But I often stayedthere when I was a child. "

"This was years ago, when Edward the Seventh was on the throne, " Iexplained to Mrs. Peter. 

"My grandfather, " went on Celia, "lived at Hilderton Hall. "

There was an impressive silence. 

"You see the sort of people you're entertaining, " I said airily toPeter. "My wife's grandfather lived at Hilderton Hall. Celia, you shouldhave spoken about this before. It would have done us a lot of good inSociety. " I pushed my plate away. "I can't go on eating bacon afterthis. Bring me peaches. "

"I should love to see it again. "

"If I'd had my rights, " I said, "I should be living there now. I mustput my solicitor on to this. There's been foul play somewhere. "

Peter looked up from one of the maps which, being new to the country, hecarries with him. 

"I can't find Hilderton Hall here, " he said. "It's six inches to themile, so it ought to be marked. "

"Celia, our grandfather's name is being aspersed. Let us look intothis. "

We crowded round the map and studied it anxiously. Hilderton was there, and Hilderton House, but no Hilderton Hall. 

"But it's a great big place, " protested Celia. 

"I see what it is, " I said regretfully. "Celia, you were young then. "

"Ten. "

"Ten. And naturally it seemed big to you, just as Yarrow seemed big toWordsworth, and a shilling seems a lot to a baby. But really----"

"Really, " said Peter, "it was semi-detached. "

"And your side was called Hilderton Hall and the other side HildertonCastle. "

"I don't believe it was even called Hilderton Hall, " said Peter. "It wasHilderton Villa. "

"I don't believe she ever had a grandfather at all, " said Mrs. Peter. 

"She must have had a grandfather, " I pointed out. "But I'm afraid henever lived at Hilderton Hall. This is a great blow to me, and I shallnow resume my bacon. "

I drew my plate back and Peter returned his map to his pocket. 

"You're all very funny, " said Celia, "but I know it was Hilderton Hall. I've a good mind to take you there this morning and show it to you. "

"Do, " said Peter and I eagerly. 

"It's a great big place----"

"That's what we're coming to see, " I reminded her. 

"Of course they may have sold some of the land, or--I mean, I know whenI used to stay there it was a--a great big place. I can't promise thatit----"

"It's no good now, Celia, " I said sternly. "You shouldn't have boasted. "

Hilderton was four miles off, and we began to approach it--Celiapalpably nervous--at about twelve o'clock that morning. 

"Are you recognizing any of this?" asked Peter. 

"N-no. You see I was only about eight----"

"You _must_ recognise the church, " I said, pointing to it. "If youdon't, it proves either that you never lived at Hilderton or that younever sang in the choir. I don't know which thought is the moredistressing. Now what about this place? Is this it?"

Celia peered up the drive. 

"N-no; at least I don't remember it. I know there was a walnut tree infront of the house. "

"Is that all you remember?"

"Well, I was only about six----"

Peter and I both had a slight cough at the same time. 

"It's nothing, " said Peter, finding Celia's indignant eye upon him. "Let's go on. "

We found two more big houses, but Celia, a little doubtfully, rejectedthem both. 

"My grandfather-in-law was very hard to please, " I apologized to Peter. "He passed over place after place before he finally fixed on HildertonHall. Either the heronry wasn't ventilated properly, or the decoy pondshad the wrong kind of mud, or----"

There was a sudden cry from Celia. 

"This is it, " she said. 

She stood at the entrance to a long drive. A few chimneys could be seenin the distance. On either side of the gates was a high wall. 

"I don't see the walnut tree, " I said. 

"Of course not, because you can't see the front of the house. But I feelcertain that this is the place. "

"We want more proof than that, " said Peter. "We must go in and find thewalnut tree. "

"We can't all wander into another man's grounds looking for walnuttrees, " I said, "with no better excuse than that Celia'sgreat-grandmother was once asked down here for the week-end and stayedfor a fortnight. We----"

"My _grandfather_, " said Celia coldly, "_lived_ here. "

"Well, whatever it was, " I said, "we must invent a proper reason. Peter, you might pretend you've come to inspect the gas-meter or the milk orsomething. Or perhaps Celia had better disguise herself as a Suffragetteand say that she's come to borrow a box of matches. Anyhow, one of usmust get to the front of the house to search for this walnut tree. "

"It--it seems rather cheek, " said Celia doubtfully. 

"We'll toss up who goes. "

We tossed, and of course I lost. I went up the drive nervously. At thefirst turn I decided to be an insurance inspector, at the next ascout-master, but, as I approached the front door, I thought of a verysimple excuse. I rang the bell under the eyes of several people at lunchand looked about eagerly for the walnut tree. 

There was none. 

"Does Mr. --er--Erasmus--er--Percival live here?" I asked the footman. 

"No, sir, " he said--luckily. 

"Ah! Was there ever a walnut--I mean _was_ there ever a Mr. Percival wholived here? Ah! Thank you, " and I sped down the drive again. 

"Well?" said Celia eagerly. 

"Mr. Percival _doesn't_ live there. "

"Whoever's Mr. Percival?"

"Oh, I forgot; you don't know him. Friends, " I added solemnly, "I regretto tell you there is _no_ walnut tree. "

"I am not surprised, " said Peter. 

The walk home was a silent one. For the rest of the day Celia wasthoughtful. But at the end of dinner she brightened up a little andjoined in the conversation. 

"At Hilderton Hall, " she said suddenly, "we always----"

"H'r'm, " I said, clearing my throat loudly. "Peter, pass Celia thewalnuts. "

 . . . . . 

I have had great fun in London this week with the walnut joke, thoughCelia says she is getting tired of it. But I had a letter from Peterto-day which ended like this:--

 "By the way, I was an ass last week. I took you to Banfield in mistake for Hilderton. I went to Hilderton yesterday and found Hilderton Hall--a large place _with_ a walnut tree. It's a little way out of the village, and is marked big on the next section of the map to the one we were looking at. You might tell Celia. "

True, I might.... 

Perhaps in a week or two I shall. 

DEFINITIONS

As soon as we had joined the ladies after dinner Gerald took up aposition in front of the fire. 

"Now that the long winter evenings are upon us, " he began----

"Anyhow, it's always dark at half-past nine, " said Norah. 

"Not in the morning, " said Dennis, who has to be excused for anythingfoolish he says since he became obsessed with golf. 

"Please don't interrupt, " I begged. "Gerald is making a speech. "

"I was only going to say that we might have a little game of some sort. Norah, what's the latest parlour game from London?"

"Tell your uncle, " I urged, "how you amuse yourselves at the Lyceum. "

"Do you know 'Hunt the Pencil'?"

"No. What do you do?"

"You collect five pencils; when you've got them, I'll tell you anothergame. "

"Bother these pencil games, " said Dennis, taking an imaginary swing witha paper-knife. "I hope it isn't too brainy. "

"You'll want to know how to spell, " said Norah severely, and she went tothe writing-desk for some paper. 

In a little while--say, half an hour--we had each a sheet of paper and apencil, and Norah was ready to explain. 

"It's called Definitions. I expect you all know it. "

We assured her we didn't. 

"Well, you begin by writing down five or six letters, one underneath theother. We might each suggest one. 'E. '"

We weighed in with ours, and the result was E P A D U. 

"Now you write them backwards. "

There was a moment's consternation. 

"Like 'bath-mat'?" said Dennis. "An 'e' backwards looks so silly. "

"Stupid--like this, " explained Norah. She showed us her paper. 

 E U P D A A D P U E

"This is thrilling, " said Mrs. Gerald, pencilling hard. 

"Then everybody has to fill in words all the way down, your first wordbeginning with 'e' and ending with 'u, ' and so on. See?"

Gerald leant over Dennis and explained carefully to him, and in a littlewhile we all saw. 

"Then, when everybody's finished, we define our words in turn, and theperson who guesses a word first gets a mark. That's all. "

"And a very good game too, " I said, and I rubbed my head and began tothink. 

"Of course, " said Norah, after a quarter of an hour's silence, "you wantto make the words difficult and define them as subtly as possible. "

"Of course, " I said, wrestling with 'E--U. ' I could only think of oneword, and it was the one everybody else was certain to have. 

"Are we all ready? Then somebody begin. "

"You'd better begin, Norah, as you know the game, " said Mrs. Gerald. 

We prepared to begin. 

"Mine, " said Norah, "is a bird. "

"Emu, " we all shouted; but I swear I was first. 

"Yes. "

"I don't think that's a very subtle definition, " said Dennis. "Youpromised to be as subtle as possible. "

"Go on, dear, " said Gerald to his wife. 

"Well, this is rather awkward. Mine is----"

"Emu, " I suggested. 

"You must wait till she has defined it, " said Norah sternly. 

"Mine is a sort of feathered animal. "

"Emu, " I said again. In fact, we all said it. 

Gerald coughed. "Mine, " he said, "isn't exactly a--fish, because it----"

"Emu, " said everybody. 

"That was subtler, " said Dennis, "but it didn't deceive us. "

"Your turn, " said Norah to me. And they all leant forward ready to say"Emu. "

"Mine, " I said, "is--all right, Dennis, you needn't look so excited--isa word I once heard a man say at the Zoo. "

There was a shriek of "Emu!"

"Wrong, " I said. 

Everybody was silent. 

"Where did he say it?" asked Norah at last. "What was he doing?"

"He was standing outside the Emu's cage. "

"It must have been Emu. "

"It wasn't. "

"Perhaps there's another animal beginning with 'e' and ending with 'u, '"suggested Dennis. "He might have said, 'Look here, I'm tired of this oldEmu, let's go and see the E-doesn't-mu, ' or whatever it's called. "

"We shall have to give it up, " said Norah at last. "What is it?"

"Ebu, " I announced. "My man had a bad cold, and he said, 'Look, Baria, there's ad Ebu. ' Er--what do I get for that?"

"Nothing, " said Norah coldly. "It isn't fair. Now, Mr. Dennis. "

"Mine is _not_ Emu, and it couldn't be mistaken for Emu; not even if youhad a sore throat and a sprained ankle. And it has nothing to do withthe Zoo, and----"

"Well, what is it?"

"It's what you say at golf when you miss a short putt. "

"I doubt it, " I said. 

"Not what Gerald says, " said his wife. 

"Well, it's what you might say. What Horace would have said. "

"'Eheu'--good, " said Gerald, while his wife was asking "Horace who?"

We moved on to the next word, P--D. 

"Mine, " said Norah, "is what you might do to a man whom you didn't like, but it's a delightful thing to have and at the same time you would hateto be in it. "

"Are you sure you know what you are talking about, dear?" said Mrs. Gerald gently. 

"Quite, " said Norah with the confidence of extreme youth. 

"Could you say it again very slowly, " asked Dennis, "indicating bychanges in the voice which character is speaking?"

She said it again. 

"'Pound, '" said Gerald. "Good--one to me. "

Mrs. Gerald had "pod, " Gerald had "pond"; but they didn't define themvery cleverly and they were soon guessed. Mine, unfortunately, was alsoguessed at once. 

"It is what Dennis's golf is, " I said. 

"'Putrid, '" said Gerald correctly. 

"Mine, " said Dennis, "is what everybody has two of. "

"Then it's not 'pound, '" I said, "because I've only got one andninepence. "

"At least, it's best to have two. Sometimes you lose one. They're veryuseful at golf. In fact, absolutely necessary. "

"Have you got two?"

"Yes. "

I looked at Dennis's enormous hands spread out on his knees. 

"Is it 'pud'?" I asked. "It is? Are those the two? Good heavens!" and Igave myself a mark. 

A--A was the next, and we had the old Emu trouble. 

"Mine, " said Norah--"mine is rather a meaningless word. "

"'Abracadabra, '" shouted everybody. 

"Mine, " said Miss Gerald, "is a very strange word, which----"

"'Abracadabra, '" shouted everybody. 

"Mine, " said Gerald, "is a word which used to be----"

"'Abracadabra, '" shouted everybody. 

"Mine, " I said to save trouble, "is 'Abracadabra. '"

"Mine, " said Dennis, "isn't. It's what you say at golf when----"

"Oh lor!" I groaned. "Not again. "

"When you hole a long putt for a half. "

"You generally say, 'What about _that_ for a good putt, old thing?Thirty yards at least, '" suggested Gerald. 

"No. "

"Is it--is it 'Alleluia'?" suggested Mrs. Gerald timidly. 

"Yes. "

"Dennis, " I said, "you're an ass. "

 . . . . . 

"And now, " said Norah at the end of the game, "who's won?"

They counted up their marks. 

"Ten, " said Norah. 

"Fifteen, " said Gerald. 

"Three, " said his wife. 

"Fourteen, " said Dennis. 

They looked at me. 

"I'm afraid I forgot to put all mine down, " I said, "but I can easilywork it out. There were five words, and five definitions of each word. Twenty-five marks to be gained altogether. You four have got--er--let'ssee--forty-two between you. That leaves me----"

"That leaves you _minus_ seventeen, " said Dennis. "I'm afraid you'velost, old man. " He took up the shovel and practised a few approachshots. "It's rather a good game. "

I think so too. It's a good game, but, like all paper games, its scoringwants watching. 

A BILLIARD LESSON

I was showing Celia a few fancy strokes on the billiard-table. The othermembers of the house-party were in the library, learning their parts forsome approaching theatricals--that is to say, they were sitting roundthe fire and saying to each other, "This _is_ a rotten play. " We hadbeen offered the position of auditors to several of the company, but wewere going to see _Parsifal_ on the next day, and I was afraid that theconstant excitement would be bad for Celia. 

"Why don't you ask me to play with you?" she asked. "You never teach meanything. "

"There's ingratitude. Why, I gave you your first lesson at golf onlylast Thursday. "

"So you did. I know golf. Now show me billiards. "

I looked at my watch. 

"We've only twenty minutes. I'll play you thirty up. "

"Right-o. What do you give me--a ball or a bisque or what?"

"I can't spare you a ball, I'm afraid. I shall want all three when I getgoing. You may have fifteen start, and I'll tell you what to do. "

"Well, what do I do first?"

"Select a cue. "

She went over to the rack and inspected them. 

"This seems a nice brown one. Now then, you begin. "

"Celia, you've got the half-butt. Put it back and take a younger one. "

"I thought it seemed taller than the others. " She took another. "How'sthis? Good. Then off you go. "

"Will you be spot or plain?" I said, chalking my cue. 

"Does it matter?"

"Not very much. They're both the same shape. "

"Then what's the difference?"

"Well, one is more spotted than the other. "

"Then I'll be less spotted. "

I went to the table. 

"I think, " I said, "I'll try and screw in off the red. " (I did this onceby accident and I've always wanted to do it again. ) "Or perhaps, " Icorrected myself, as soon as the ball had left me, "I had better give asafety miss. "

I did. My ball avoided the red and came swiftly back into the left-handbottom pocket. 

"That's three to you, " I said without enthusiasm. 

Celia seemed surprised. 

"But I haven't begun yet, " she said. "Well, I suppose you know therules, but it seems funny. What would you like me to do?"

"Well, there isn't much on. You'd better just try and hit the red ball. "

"Right. " She leant over the table and took long and careful aim. I heldmy breath.... Still she aimed.... Then, keeping her chin on the cue, sheslowly turned her head and looked up at me with a thoughtful expression. 

"Oughtn't there to be three balls on the table?" she said, wrinkling herforehead. 

"No, " I answered shortly. 

"But why not?"

"Because I went down by mistake. "

"But you said that when you got going, you wanted---- I can't arguebending down like this. " She raised herself slowly. "You said---- Oh, all right, I expect you know. Anyhow, I _have_ scored some already, haven't I?"

"Yes. You're eighteen to my nothing. "

"Yes. Well, now I shall have to aim all over again. " She bent slowlyover her cue. "Does it matter where I hit the red?"

"Not much. As long as you hit it on the red part. "

She hit it hard on the side, and both balls came into baulk. 

"Too good, " I said. 

"Does either of us get anything for it?"

"No. " The red and the white were close together, and I went up the tableand down again on the off-chance of a cannon. I misjudged it, however. 

"That's three to you, " I said stiffly, as I took my ball out of theright-hand bottom pocket. "Twenty-one to nothing. "

"Funny how I'm doing all the scoring, " said Celia meditatively. "AndI've practically never played before. I shall hit the red hard now andsee what happens to it. "

She hit, and the red coursed madly about the table, coming to rest nearthe top right-hand pocket and close to the cushion. With a forcing shotI could get in. 

"This will want a lot of chalk, " I said pleasantly to Celia, and gave itplenty. Then I let fly.... 

"Why did that want a lot of chalk?" said Celia with interest. 

I went to the fire-place and picked my ball out of the fender. 

"That's three to you, " I said coldly. "Twenty-four to nothing. "

"Am I winning?"

"You're leading, " I explained. "Only, you see, I may make a twenty atany moment. "

"Oh!" She thought this over. "Well, I may make my three at any moment. "

She chalked her cue and went over to her ball. 

"What shall I do?"

"Just touch the red on the right-hand side, " I said, "and you'll go intothe pocket. "

"The _right_-hand side? Do you mean _my_ right-hand side, or theball's?"

"The right-hand side of the ball, of course; that is to say, the sideopposite your right hand. "

"But its right-hand side is opposite my _left_ hand, if the ball isfacing this way. "

"Take it, " I said wearily, "that the ball has its back to you. "

"How rude of it, " said Celia, and hit it on the left-hand side, and sankit. "Was that what you meant?"

"Well ... It's another way of doing it. "

"I thought it was. What do I give you for that?"

"_You_ get three. "

"Oh, I thought the other person always got the marks. I know the lastthree times----"

"Go on, " I said freezingly. "You have another turn. "

"Oh, is it like rounders?"

"Something. Go on, there's a dear. It's getting late. "

She went, and left the red over the middle pocket. 

"A-ha!" I said. I found a nice place in the "D" for my ball. "Now then. This is the Gray stroke, you know. "

I suppose I was nervous. Anyhow, I just nicked the red ball gently onthe wrong side and left it hanging over the pocket. The white travelledslowly up the table. 

"Why is that called the grey stroke?" asked Celia with great interest. 

"Because once, when Sir Edward Grey was playing the GermanAmbassador--but it's rather a long story. I'll tell you another time. "

"Oh! Well, anyhow, did the German Ambassador get anything for it?"

"No. "

"Then I suppose I don't. Bother. "

"But you've only got to knock the red in for game. "

"Oh!... There, what's that?"

"That's a miss-cue. I get one. "

"Oh!... Oh well, " she added magnanimously, "I'm glad you've startedscoring. It will make it more interesting for you. "

There was just room to creep in off the red, leaving it still over thepocket. With Celia's ball nicely over the other pocket there was achance of my twenty break. "Let's see, " I said, "how many do I want?"

"Twenty-nine, " replied Celia. 

"Ah, " I said ... And I crept in. 

"That's three to you, " I said icily. "Game. "

BURLESQUES

THE SEASIDE NOVELETTE

[MAY BE READ ON THE PIER]

No. XCVIII--A SIMPLE ENGLISH GIRL

CHAPTER I

PRIMROSE FARM

Primrose Farm stood slumbering in the sunlight of an early summer morn. Save for the gentle breeze which played in the tops of the two tall elmsall Nature seemed at rest. Chanticleer had ceased his song; the pigswere asleep; in the barn the cow lay thinking. A deep peace brooded overthe rural scene, the peace of centuries. Terrible to think that in a fewshort hours ... But perhaps it won't. The truth is I have not quitedecided whether to have the murder in this story or in No. XCIX. --_TheSevered Thumb_. We shall see. 

As her alarum clock (a birthday present) struck five, Gwendolen Frenchsprang out of bed and plunged her face into the clump of nettles whichgrew outside her lattice window. For some minutes she stood there, breathing in the incense of the day; then dressing quickly she went downinto the great oak-beamed kitchen to prepare breakfast for her fatherand the pigs. As she went about her simple duties she sang softly toherself, a song of love and knightly deeds. Little did she think that alover, even at that moment, stood outside her door. 

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Gwendolen, and she poured the bran-mash into a bowland took it up to her father's room. 

For eighteen years Gwendolen French had been the daughter of John Frenchof Primrose Farm. Endowed by Nature with a beauty that is seldom seenoutside this sort of story, she was yet as modest and as good a girl aswas to be found in the county. Many a fine lady would have given all herParisian diamonds for the peach-like complexion which bloomed on thefair face of Gwendolen. But the gifts of Nature are not to be bought andsold. 

There was a sudden knock at the door. 

"Come in, " cried Gwendolen in surprise. Unless it was the cow, it was anentirely unexpected visitor. 

A tall and handsome young man entered, striking his head violentlyagainst a beam as he stepped into the low-ceilinged kitchen. 

"Good morning, " he said, repressing the remark which came more readilyto his lips. "Pray forgive this intrusion. The fact is I have lost myway, and I wondered whether you would be kind enough to inform me as tomy whereabouts. "

Recognizing from his conversation that she was being addressed by agentleman, Gwendolen curtsied. 

"This is Primrose Farm, sir, " she said. 

"I fear, " he replied with a smile, "it has been my misfortune never tohave heard so charming a name before. I am Lord Beltravers, ofBeltravers Castle, Beltravers. Having returned last night from India Icame out for an early stroll this morning, and I fear that I havewandered out of my direction. "

"Why, " cried Gwendolen, "your lordship is miles from Beltravers Castle. How tired and hungry you must be. " She removed a lettuce from thekitchen chair, dusted it, and offered it to him. (That is to say, thechair, not the lettuce. ) "Let me get you some milk, " she added. Pickingup a pail, she went out to inspect the cow. 

"Gad, " said Lord Beltravers as soon as he was alone. He paced rapidlyup and down the tiled kitchen. "Deuce take it, " he added recklessly, "she's a lovely girl. " The Beltraverses were noted in two continents fortheir hard swearing. 

"Here you are, sir, " said Gwendolen, returning with the precious liquid. 

Lord Beltravers seized the pail and drained it at a draught. 

"Heavens, but that was good!" he said. "What was it?"

"Milk, " said Gwendolen. 

"Milk; I must remember. And now may I trespass on your hospitality stillfurther by trespassing on your assistance so far as to solicit your helpin putting me far enough on my path to discover my way back toBeltravers Castle?" (When he was alone he said that sentence again tohimself, and wondered what had happened to it. )

"I will show you, " she said simply. 

They passed out into the sunlit orchard. In an apple tree a thrush wassinging; the gooseberries were over-ripe; beetroots were floweringeverywhere. 

"You are very beautiful, " he said. 

"Yes, " said Gwendolen. 

"I must see you again. Listen! To-night my mother, Lady Beltravers, isgiving a ball. Do you dance?"

"Alas, not the tango, " she said sadly. 

"The Beltraverses do not tang, " he announced with simple dignity. "Youvalse? Good. Then will you come?"

"Thank you, my lord. Oh, I should love to!"

"That is excellent. And now I must bid you good-bye. But first, will younot tell me your name?"

"Gwendolen French, my lord. "

"Ah! One 'f' or two?"

"Three, " said Gwendolen simply. 

CHAPTER II

BELTRAVERS CASTLE

Beltravers Castle was a blaze of lights. At the head of the old oakstaircase (a magnificent example of the Selfridge period) the LadyBeltravers stood receiving her guests. Magnificently gowned in one ofSweeting's latest creations, and wearing round her neck the famousBeltravers seed-pearls, she looked the picture of stately magnificence. As each guest was announced by a bevy of footmen, she extended herperfectly gloved hand and spoke a few words of kindly welcome. 

"Good evening, Duchess; so good of you to look in. Ah, Earl, charmed tomeet you; you'll find some sandwiches in the billiard-room. Beltravers, show the Earl some sandwiches. How-do-you-do, Professor? Delighted youcould come. Won't you take off your goloshes?"

All the county was there. 

Lord Hobble was there wearing a magnificent stud; Erasmus Belt, thefamous author, whose novel, _Bitten: A Romance_, went into two editions;Sir Septimus Root, the inventor of the fire-proof spat; Captain theHonourable Alfred Nibbs, the popular breeder of blood-tortoises--thewhole world and his wife were present. And towering above them all stoodLord Beltravers, of Beltravers Castle, Beltravers. 

Lord Beltravers stood aloof in a corner of the great ball-room. Abovehis head was the proud coat-of-arms of the Beltraverses--a headlesssardine on a field of tomato. As each new arrival entered LordBeltravers scanned his or her countenance eagerly, and then turned awaywith a snarl of disappointment. Would his little country maid nevercome?

She came at last. Attired in a frock which had obviously been created inLittle Popley, she looked the picture of girlish innocence as she stoodfor a moment hesitating in the doorway. Then her eyes brightened as LordBeltravers came towards her with long swinging strides. 

"You're here!" he exclaimed. "How good of you to come. I have thoughtabout you ever since this morning. There is a valse beginning. Will youvalse it with me?"

"Thank you, " said Gwendolen shyly. 

Lord Beltravers, who valsed divinely, put his arm round her waist andled her into the circle of dancers. 

CHAPTER III

AFFIANCED

The ball was at its height. Gwendolen, who had been in to supper eighttimes, placed her hand timidly on the arm of Lord Beltravers, who hadjust begged a polka of her. 

"Let us sit this out, " she said. "Not here--in the garden. "

"Yes, " said Lord Beltravers gravely. "Let us go. I have something to sayto you. "

Offering her his arm, he led her down the great terrace which ran alongthe back of the house. 

"How wonderful to have your ancestors always around you like this!"cooed Gwendolen, as she gazed with reverence at the two statues whichfronted them. 

"Venus, " said Lord Beltravers shortly, "and Samson. "

He led her down the steps and into the ornamental garden, and there theysat down. 

"Miss French, " said Lord Beltravers, "or, if I may call you by thatsweet name, Gwendolen, I have brought you here for the purpose of makingan offer to you. Perhaps it would have been more in accordance withetiquette had I approached your mother first. "

"Mother is dead, " said the girl simply. 

"I am sorry, " said Lord Beltravers, bending his head in courtlysympathy. "In that case I should have asked your father to hear mysuit. "

"Father is deaf, " she replied. "He couldn't have heard it. "

"Tut, tut, " said Lord Beltravers impatiently. "I beg your pardon, " headded at once, "I should have controlled myself. That being so, " hewent on, "I have the honour to make to you, Miss French, an offer ofmarriage. May I hope?"

Gwendolen put her hand suddenly to her heart. The shock was too much forher fresh young innocence. She was not really engaged to Giles Earwaker, though he, too, was hoping; and the only three times that Thomas Ritsonhad kissed her she had threatened to box his ears. 

"Lord Beltravers, " she began----

"Call me Beltravers, " he begged. 

"Beltravers, I love you. I give you a simple maiden's heart. "

"My darling!" he cried, clasping her thumb impulsively. "Then we areaffianced. "

He slipped a ring off his finger and fitted it affectionately on two ofhers. 

"Wear this, " he said gravely. "It was my mother's. She was a deDindigul. See, this is their crest--a roe-less herring over the motto_Dans l'huile_. " Observing that she looked puzzled he translated thenoble French words to her. "And now let us go in. Another dance isbeginning. May I beg for the honour?"

"Beltravers, " she whispered lovingly. 

CHAPTER IV

EXPOSURE

The next dance was at its height. In a dream of happiness Gwendolenrevolved with closed eyes round Lord Beltravers, of Beltravers Castle, Beltravers. 

Suddenly above the music rose a voice, commanding, threatening. 

"Stop!" cried the Lady Beltravers. 

As if by magic the band ceased and all the dancers were still. 

"There is an intruder here, " said Lady Beltravers in a cold voice. "Amilkmaid, a common farmer's daughter. Gwendolen French, leave my housethis instant!"

Dazed, hardly knowing what she did, Gwendolen moved forward. In aninstant Lord Beltravers was after her. 

"No, mother, " he said, with the utmost dignity. "Not a common milkmaid, but the future Lady Beltravers. "

An indescribable thrill of emotion ran through the crowded ball-room. Lord Hobble's stud fell out; and Lady Susan Golightly hurried across theroom and fainted in the arms of Sir James Batt. 

"What!" cried the Lady Beltravers. "My son, the last of theBeltraverses, the Beltraverses who came over with Julius Wernher, Ishould say Cæsar, marry a milkmaid?"

"No, mother. He is marrying what any man would be proud to marry--asimple English girl. "

There was a cheer, instantly suppressed, from a Socialist in the band. 

For just a moment words failed the Lady Beltravers. Then she sank into achair, and waved her guests away. 

"The ball is over, " she said slowly. "Leave me. My son and I must bealone. "

One by one, with murmured thanks for a delightful evening, the gueststrooped out. Soon mother and son were alone. Lord Beltravers, gazing outof the window, saw the 'cellist laboriously dragging his 'cello acrossthe park. 

CHAPTER V

THE END

[And now, dear readers, I am in a difficulty. How shall the story go on?The editor of _The Seaside Library_ asks quite frankly for a murder. Hisidea was that the Lady Beltravers should be found dead in the park nextmorning and that Gwendolen should be arrested. This seems to me bothcrude and vulgar. Besides, I want a murder for No. XCIX. Of theseries--_The Severed Thumb_. 

No, I think I know a better way out. ]

 . . . . . 

Old John French sat beneath a spreading pear tree, and waited. Earlythat morning a mysterious note had been brought to him, asking for aninterview on a matter of the utmost importance. This was thetrysting-place. 

"I have come, " said a voice behind him, "to ask you to beg yourdaughter----

"I HAVE COME, " cried the Lady Beltravers, "TO ASK YOU----

"I HAVE COME, " shouted her ladyship, "TO----"

John French wheeled round in amazement. With a cry the Lady Beltraversshrank back. 

"Eustace, " she gasped--"Eustace, Earl of Turbot!"

"Eliza!"

"What are you doing here? I came to see John French. "

"What?" he asked, with his hand to his ear. 

She repeated her remark loudly several times. 

"I _am_ John French, " he said at last. "When you refused me and marriedBeltravers I suddenly felt tired of Society; and I changed my name andsettled down here as a simple farmer. My daughter helps me on the farm. "

"Then your daughter is----"

"Lady Gwendolen Hake. "

 . . . . . 

A beautiful double wedding was solemnized at Beltravers in October, theEarl of Turbot leading Eliza, Lady Beltravers to the altar, while LordBeltravers was joined in matrimony to the beautiful Lady Gwendolen Hake. There were many presents on both sides, which partook equally of thebeautiful and the costly. 

Lady Gwendolen Beltravers is now the most popular hostess in the county;but to her husband she always seems the simple English milkmaid that hefirst thought her. Ah!

THE SECRET OF THE ARMY

AEROPLANE

[In the thrilling manner of Mr. William le Queux. ]

"Yes, " said my friend, Ray Raymond, as a grim smile crossed histypically English face, looking round the chambers which we sharedtogether, though he never had occasion to practise, though Iunfortunately had, "it is a very curious affair indeed. "

"Tell us the whole facts, Ray, " urged Vera Vallance, the prettyfair-haired daughter of Admiral Sir Charles Vallance, to whom he wasengaged. 

"Well, dear, they are briefly as follows, " he replied, with anaffectionate glance at her. "It is well known that the Germans areanxious to get hold of our new aeroplane, and that the secret of it isat present locked in the inventor's breast. Last Tuesday a man with hismoustache brushed up the wrong way alighted at Basingstoke station andenquired for the refreshment-room. This leads me to believe that adastardly attempt is about to be made to wrest the supremacy of the airfrom our grasp!" Immediately I swooned. 

"And even in the face of this the Government denies the activity ofGerman spies in England!" I exclaimed bitterly as soon as I hadrecovered consciousness. 

"Jacox, " said my old friend, "as a patriot it is none the less my dutyto expose these miscreants. To-morrow we go to Basingstoke. "

Next Thursday, then, saw us ensconced in our private sitting-room at theBull Hotel, Basingstoke. On our way from the station I had noticed howill-prepared the town was to resist invasion, and I had pointed thisout bitterly to my dear old friend, Ray Raymond. 

"Yes, " he remarked, grimly; "and it is simply infested with spies. Jack, my surmises are proving correct. There will be dangerous work afootto-night. Have you brought your electric torch with you?"

"Since that Rosyth affair, I never travel without it, " I replied, as Istood with my back to the cheap mantel-shelf so common in Englishhotels. 

The night was dark, therefore we proceeded with caution as we left theinn. The actions of Ray Raymond were curious. As we passed eachtelegraph pole he stopped and said grimly, "Ah, I thought so"; and drewhis revolver. When we had covered fifteen miles we looked at our watchesby the aid of our electric torches and discovered that it was time toget back to the hotel unless we wished our presence, or rather absence, to be made known to the German spies; therefore we returned hastily. 

Next morning Ray was recalled to town by an urgent telegram, therefore Iwas left alone at Basingstoke to foil the dastardly spies. I stayedthere for thirteen weeks, and then went with my old friend to Grimsby, he having received news that a German hairdresser, named Macdonald, wasresident in that town. 

"My dear Jack, " said my friend Ray Raymond, his face assuming thesphinx-like expression by which I knew that he had formed some theoryfor the destruction of his country's dastardly enemies, "to-night weshall come to grips with the Teuton!"

"And yet, " I cried, "the Government refuses to admit the activity ofGerman spies in England!"

"Ha!" said my friend grimly. 

He opened a small black bag and produced a dark lantern, a coil ofstrong silk rope, and a small but serviceable jemmy. All thatburglarious outfit belonged to my friend!

At this moment the pretty fair girl to whom he was engaged, VeraVallance, arrived, but returned to London by the next train. 

At ten o'clock we proceeded cautiously to the house of Macdonald thehairdresser, whom Ray had discovered to be a German spy!

"Have you your electric torch with you?" inquired my dear old collegefriend. 

"I have, " I answered grimly. 

"Good! Then let us enter!"

"You mean to break in?" I cried, amazed at the audacity of my friend. 

"Bah!" he said. "Spies are always cowards!"

Therefore we knocked at the door. It was opened by two men, the elder ofwhom gave vent to a quick German imprecation. The younger had a shortbeard. 

"You are a German spy?" enquired Ray Raymond. 

"No, " replied the bearded German in very good English, adding withmarvellous coolness: "To what, pray, do we owe this unwarrantableintrusion?"

"To the fact that you are a spy who has been taking secret tracings ofour Army aeroplane!" retorted my friend. 

But the spy only laughed in open defiance. 

"Well, there's no law against it, " he replied. 

"No, " retorted Ray grimly, "thanks to the stupidity of a crassGovernment, there _is_ no law against it. "

"My God!" I said hoarsely, and my face went the colour of ashes. 

"But my old friend Jacass--I mean Jacox--and I, " continued Ray Raymond, fixing the miserable spy with his eye, "have decided to take the lawinto our own hands. I have my revolver and my friend has his electrictorch. Give me the tracings. "

"Gott--no!" cried the German spies in German. "Never, you English cur!"

But Ray had already extracted a letter from the elder man's pocket, andwas making for the door! I followed him. When we got back to our hotelhe drew the letter from his pocket and eagerly examined it. I give herean exact copy of it, and I may state that when we sent it to HisMajesty's Minister for War he returned it without a word!

 "BERKELEY CHAMBERS, CANNON STREET, E. C. DEAR SIR, --In reply to yours of the 29th ult. We beg to say that we can do you a good line in shaving brushes at the following wholesale prices: Badger 70s. A gross. Pure Badger 75s. A gross. Real Badger 80s. A gross. Awaiting your esteemed order, which we shall have pleasure in promptly executing, We are, sir, Yours obediently, WILKINSON and ALLBUTT. MR. JAMES MACDONALD. "

That letter, innocent enough upon the face of it, contained dastardlyinstructions from the Chief of Police to a German spy! Read by thealphabetical code supplied to every German secret agent in England, itran as follows:

 (_Phrase 1_). "Discover without delay secret of new aeroplane. "

 (_Phrase 2_). "Forward particulars of best plan for blowing up (1) Portsmouth Dockyard. (2) Woolwich Arsenal. (3) Albert Memorial. "

 (_Phrase 3_). "Be careful of Jack Jacox. He carries a revolver and an electric torch. "

"Ah!" said my friend grimly, "we were only just in time. Had we delayedlonger, England might have knelt at the proud foot of a conqueror!"

"Ha!" I replied briefly. 

Next morning we returned to the chambers which we shared together inLondon, and were joined by Vera Vallance, the pretty fair daughter ofAdmiral Sir Charles Vallance, to whom my old friend was engaged. And, ashe stroked her hair affectionately, I realised thankfully that he and Ihad indeed been the instruments of Providence in foiling the plots ofthe German spies!

 BUT HOW WILL IT ALL END? WHEN WILL GERMANY STRIKE?

THE HALO THEY GAVE THEMSELVES

[A collaboration by the Authors of "The Broken Halo" and "The Woman ThouGavest Me. "]

CHAPTER I

SUNDAY MORNING

(MRS. BARCLAY _begins_)

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. All nature browsed in solemn Sabbathstillness. The Little Grey Woman of the Night-Light was hurrying, somewhat late, to church. 

Down the white ribbon of road the Virile Benedict of the Libraries camebicycling, treadling easily from the ankles. He rode boldly, with onlyone hand on the handle-bars, the other in the pocket of his whiteflannel cricketing trousers. His footballing tie, with his college armsembroidered upon it, flapped gently in the breeze. To look at him youwould have said that he was probably a crack polo player on his way todefend the championship against all comers, or the captain of a countygolf eleven. As he rode, his soul overflowing with the joy of life, hehummed the Collect for the Day. 

It was exactly opposite the church that he ran into the Little GreyWoman of the Night-Light. He had just flashed past a labourer in theroad--known to his cronies as the Flap-eared Denizen of theTurnip-patch--a labourer who in the dear dead days of Queen Victoriawould have touched his hat humbly, but who now, in this horrible age ofattempts to level all class distinctions, actually went on lighting hispipe! Alas, that the respectful deference of the poor toward the rich isnow a thing of the past! So thought the Virile Benedict of theLibraries, and in thinking this he had let his mind wander from theimportant business of guiding his bicycle! In another moment he had runinto the Little Grey Woman of the Night-Light!

She had seen him coming and had given a warning cry, but it was toolate. The next moment he shot over his handle-bars; but even as herevolved through the air he wondered how old she really was, and what, if any, was her income. For since the death of the Little White Lady hehad formed a habit of marrying elderly women for their money, and hisfifth or sixth wife had perished of old age only a few months ago. 

[_Hall Caine_ (waking up). _Who, pray, is the Little White Lady?_

_Mrs. Barclay. His first wife. She comes in my book, "The Broken Halo, "now in its two hundredth edition. _

_Hall Caine_ (annoyed). _Tut!_]

"Jove, " he said cheerily, as he picked himself and her and his bicycleup, "that was a nasty spill. As my Aunt Louisa used to say to the curatewhen he upset the milk-jug into her lap, 'No milk, thank you. '" Hisbrown eyes danced with amusement as he related this reminiscence of hisboyhood. To the Little Grey Woman he seemed to exhale youth from everypore. 

"What did your Aunt Louisa say when her ankle was sprained?" she askedwith a rueful smile. 

In an instant the merry banter faded from the Virile Benedict's browneyes, and was replaced by the commanding look of one who has taken abrilliant degree in all his medical examinations. 

"Allow me, " he said brusquely; "I am a doctor. " He bent down andlistened to her ankle. 

It did not take Dr. Dick Cameron's quick ear long to find out all therewas to know. His manner became very gentle and his voice very low; and, though he continued to exhale youth, he did it less ostentatiously thanbefore. 

"I must carry you home, " he said, picking her up in his strong youngarms; "you cannot go to church to-day. "

"But the curate is preaching!"

Dr. Dick murmured something profane under his breath about curates. Hehad, alas! these moments of irreverence; as, for instance, on oneoccasion when he had spoken of Mr. Louis N. Parker's noble picture-play, "Joseph and his Brethren, " quite shortly as "Jos. Bros. "

"I will carry you home, " he said gently. "Tell me where you live, LittleGrey Woman. "

She smiled up at him bravely. "The Manor House, " she said. 

His voice became yet more gentle. "And now tell me your income, " hewhispered; and his whole being trembled with emotion as he waited forher reply. 

[_Mrs. Barclay. There! That's the end of the chapter. Now it's yourturn. _

_Hall Caine_ (waking up). _I don't know if I told you that in my lastgreat work of the imagination, in which I collaborated with the Bishopof London, I wrote throughout in the first person. Nearly a millioncopies were sold, thus showing that the heart of the great publicapproved of my method of telling my story through the mouth of a youngand innocent girl, exposed to great temptation. I should wish, therefore, to repeat that method in this story, if you could so arrangeit. _

_Mrs. Barclay. But that's easy. The Little Grey Woman shall tell Dr. Dick the story of her first marriage. I did that in my last book, "TheBroken Halo, " now in its two hundredth edition. _

_Hall Caine_ (annoyed). _Tut!_]

CHAPTER II

UNDER THE CEDAR

(MRS. BARCLAY _continues_)

They were having tea in the garden--the Little Grey Woman and Dr. Dick. More than six months had elapsed since the accident outside the church, and Dr. Dick still remained on at the Manor House in charge of hispatient, wishing to be handy in case the old sprain came on againsuddenly. She was eighty-two and had twelve thousand a year. On the lawna thrush was singing. 

"How fresh and green the world is to-day, " sighed Dr. Dick, leaning backand exhaling youth. "As the curate used to say to my Aunt Louisa, 'Adelightful shower after the rain. '" He laughed merrily, and threw acrumb at the thrush with the perfect aim of a good cricketer throwingthe ball at the wickets. 

"My dear boy, " said the Little Grey Woman, "the world is always freshand green to youth like yours. But to an old woman like me----"

"Not old, " said Dick, with an ardent glance; "only eighty-two. Mrs. Beauchamp, will you marry me?"

She looked at him with a sad but tender smile. 

"What _would_ my friends say?" she asked. 

"Bother your friends. "

"My dear boy, you would be considerably surprised if you could glancethrough an approximate list of the friends I possess to-day. Do you knowthat if I marry you I shall be required to make an explanation toseveral royal ladies--that is, if they graciously grant me theopportunity so to do. "

"But I want your mon--I mean I _love_ you, " he pleaded, the light ofyouth shining in his brown eyes. 

The Little Grey Woman looked at him tenderly. Their eyes met. 

"Listen, " she said. "I will tell you the story of my first marriage, andthen if you wish you shall ask me again. "

Dr. Dick helped himself to another slice of cake and leant back tolisten. 

[_Mrs. Barclay. There you are. Now you can do Chapter Three. _

_Hall Caine. Excellent. It is quite time that one got some emotion intothis story. In "The Woman Thou Gavest Me, " of which more than amillion----_

_Mrs. Barclay. Emotion, indeed! My last book is already in its twohundredth edition. _

_Hall Caine_ (annoyed). _Tut!_]

CHAPTER III

MRS. BEAUCHAMP'S STORY

(MR. HALL CAINE _takes up the tale_)

I have always had a wonderful memory, and my earliest recollection is ofhearing my father ask, on the day when I was born, whether it was a boyor a girl. When they told him "a girl, " he let fall a rough expressionwhich sent the blood coursing over my mother's pale cheeks likelobster-sauce coursing over a turbot. My father, John Boomster, was agreat advertising agent, perhaps the greatest in the island, though healways said that there was one man who could beat him. He wanted a sonto succeed him in the business, and in the years to come he neverforgave me for being a girl. He would often glare at me in silence forthree-quarters of an hour, and then, letting fall the same roughexpression, throw a boot at me and stride from the room. A hard, cruelman, my father, and yet, in his fashion, he was fond of me. 

It was not until I was eighteen that he first spoke to me. To my dyingday I shall never forget that evening; nor his words, which bitthemselves into my mind as a red-hot iron bites its way into cheese. 

"Nell, " he said, for that was my name, though he had never used itbefore, "I've arranged that you are to marry Lord Wurzel two months fromto-day. "

At these terrible words the blood ebbed slowly from my ears and my handsgrew hot. 

"I do not know him, " I said in a stifled voice. 

"You will to-morrow, " he laughed brutally, and with another rough wordhe strode from the room. 

Lord Wurzel! I ran upstairs to my room and flung myself face downwardson the bed. In my agony I bit a large piece out of my pillow. The bloodflowed forward and backward over me in waves, and I burst every now andthen into a passion of weeping. 

By and by I began to feel more serene. I decided that it was my duty toobey my father. My heart leapt within me at the thought of doing myduty, and to calm myself I put on my hat and wandered into the glen. Itwas very silent in the glen. There was no sound but the rustling of theleaves overhead, the popping of the insects underfoot, the sneezing ofthe cattle, the whistling of the pigs, the coughing of the field-mice, the roaring of the rabbits, and the deep organ-song of the sea. 

But suddenly, above all these noises, I heard a voice which sent theblood ebbing and flowing in my heart and caused the back of my neck toquiver with ecstasy. 

"Nell!" it said. 

It was the voice of my old comrade, Andrew Spinnaker, who had playedwith me in our childhood's days, and whom I had not seen now for eightyears. 

"Andrew!" I cried, as I turned round. "What are you doing here?"

"I am just off to discover the South Pole, " he said. "My shipmates arewaiting for me to command the expedition. "

I noticed then for the first time that he was dressed in a seal-skin capand a pair of sleeping-bags. 

"Nell, " he went on, "before I go, tell me you love me. "

My heart fluttered like a captured bird; my knees trembled like adrunken spider's; my throat was stifled like a stifled throat. A hugewave of something or other surged over me and told me that the greatmystery of the world had happened to me. 

I was in love. 

I was in love with Andrew Spinnaker. 

"Andrew, " I cried, falling on his startled chin, "I love you. " All theback of my neck thrilled with joy. 

But my joy was shortlived. No sooner had I become aware that I lovedAndrew Spinnaker than my conscience told me I had no right to do so. Iwas going to marry Lord Wurzel, and to love another than my husband wassin. I shook Andrew off my lips. 

"I love you, " I said, "but I cannot marry you. I am marrying LordWurzel. "

"That beast?" cried Andrew, in the impetuous sailor fashion which soendeared him to his shipmates. "When I come back I will thrash him as Iwould thrash a vicious ape. "

"When will that be?"

"In about two months, " said my darling boy. "This is going to be a veryquick expedition. "

"Alas, that will be my wedding day, " I said with a low sob like that ofa buffalo yearning for its mate. "It will be too late. "

Andrew took me in his strong arms. I should not have let him, but Icould not help it. 

"Listen, " he said, "I will start back from the Pole a day before myshipmates, and save you from that d-sh-d beast. And then I will marryyou, Nell. "

There was a roaring in my ears like the roaring of the bath when the tapis left on; many waters seemed to rush upon me; my hat fell off, andthen deep oblivion came over me and I swooned. 

 . . . . . 

To go through my emotions in detail during the next two months would bebut to harrow you needlessly. Suffice it to say that seventeen times Iflung myself face downwards on my bed and bit a piece out of the pillow, on twenty-nine occasions the blood ebbed slowly from my face, and myheart fluttered like a captured bird, while in a hundred and fortyinstances a wave of emotion surged slowly over my whole body, leavingme trembling like an aspen leaf. Otherwise my health remained good. 

It was the night before the wedding. The bad Lord Wurzel had just leftme with words of love upon his lying lips. To-morrow, unless AndrewSpinnaker saved me, I should be Lady Wurzel. 

"A marconigram for you, miss, " said our faithful old gardener, William, entering the drawing-room noiselessly by the chimney. "I brought itmyself to be sure you got it. "

With trembling fingers I tore it open. How my heart leapt and the hotcolour flooded my neck and brow when I recognised the dear schoolboywriting of my beloved Andrew! I have the message still. It went likethis:

 "_Wireless--South Pole. _ Arrived safe. Found Pole. Weather charming. Blue sky. Not a breath of wind. Am wearing my thick socks. Sun never going down. Constellations revolving without dipping. Moon going sideways. Am starting for England to-morrow. Arrive Victoria twelve o'clock, Wednesday. --ANDREW. "

Back on Wednesday! And to-morrow was Tuesday--my wedding day! There wasno hope. I felt like a shipwrecked voyager. For the thirty-fifth timesince the beginning of the month deep oblivion came over me, and Iswooned. 

[_Hall Caine. I think you might go on now. I have put a little life intothe story. It is, perhaps, not quite so vivid as my last work, "TheWoman Thou Gavest Me, " of which more than a million copies----_

_Mrs. Barclay. In the two hundredth edition of "The Broken Halo"----_

_Hall Caine_ (annoyed). _Tut!_]

CHAPTER IV

THE END

(MRS. BARCLAY _resumes_)

At this point in The Little Grey Woman's story handsome Dr. Dick putdown his third piece of cake and got up. There was a baffled look on hisvirile face which none of his previous wives had ever seen there. Foronce Dr. Dick was nonplussed!

"Is there much more of your story?" he asked. 

"Five hundred and nineteen pages, " she said. 

The Virile Benedict of the Libraries took up his hat. Never had heexhaled youth so violently, yet never had he looked such a man. He hadmade up his mind. She was rich; but, after all, money was noteverything. 

"Good-bye, " he said. 

A DIDACTIC NOVEL

[In humble imitation of Mr. EUSTACE MILES'S serial in _Healthward Ho!_(Help!), and in furtherance of the great principle of self-culture]

THE MYSTERY OF GORDON SQUARE

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

Roger Dangerfield, the famous barrister, is passing through GordonSquare one December night when he suddenly comes across the dead body ofa man of about forty years. To his horror he recognises it to be that ofhis friend, Sir Eustace Butt, M. P. , who has been stabbed in sevenplaces. Much perturbed by the incident, Roger goes home and decides tolead a new life. Hitherto he had been notorious in the London clubs forhis luxurious habits, but now he rises at 7. 30 every morning andbreathes evenly through the nose for five minutes before dressing. 

After three weeks of the breathing exercise, Roger adds a few simplelunges to his morning drill. Detective-Inspector Frenchard tells himthat he has a clue to the death of Sir Eustace, but that the murderer isstill at large. Roger sells his London house and takes a cottage in thecountry, where he practises the simple life. He is now lunging ten timesto the right, ten times to the left and ten times backwards everymorning, besides breathing lightly through the nose during his bath. 

One day he meets a Yogi, who tells him that if he desires to track themurderer down he must learn concentration. He suggests that Roger shouldstart by concentrating on the word "wardrobe, " and then leaves thisstory and goes back to India. Roger sells his house in the country andcomes back to town, where he concentrates for half an hour daily on theword "wardrobe, " besides, of course, persevering with his breathing andlunging exercises. After a heavy morning's drill he is passing throughGordon Square when he comes across the body of his old friend, SirJoshua Tubbs, M. P. , who has been stabbed nine times. Roger returns homequickly, and decides to practise breathing through the ears. 

CHAPTER XCI

PREPARATION

The appalling death of Sir Joshua Tubbs, M. P. , following so closely uponthat of Sir Eustace Butt, M. P. , meant the beginning of a new life forRoger. His morning drill now took the following form:--

On rising at 7. 30 a. M. He sipped a glass of distilled water, at the sametime concentrating on the word "wardrobe. " This lasted for ten minutes, after which he stood before the open window for five minutes, breathingalternately through the right ear and the left. A vigorous series oflunges followed, together with the simple kicking exercises detailed inchapter LIV. 

These over, there was a brief interval of rest, during which our hero, breathing heavily through the back of the head, concentrated on the word"dough-nut. " Refreshed by the mental discipline, he rose and stoodlightly on the ball of his left foot, at the same time massaging himselfvigorously between the shoulders with his right. After five minutes ofthis he would rest again, lying motionless except for a circularmovement of the ears. A cold bath, a brisk rub down and another glass ofdistilled water completed the morning training. 

But it is time we got on with the story. The murder of Sir Joshua Tubbs, M. P. Had sent a thrill of horror through England, and hundreds of peoplewrote indignant letters to the Press, blaming the police for theirneglect to discover the assassin. Detective-Inspector Frenchard, however, was hard at work, and he was inspired by the knowledge that hecould always rely upon the assistance of Roger Dangerfield, the famousbarrister, who had sworn to track the murderer down. 

To prepare himself for the forthcoming struggle Roger decided, one sunnyday in June, to give up the meat diet upon which he had relied so long, and to devote himself entirely to a vegetable _régime_. With thatthoroughness which was now becoming a characteristic of him, he leftLondon and returned to the country, with the intention of making a studyof food values. 

CHAPTER XCII

LOVE COMES IN

It was a beautiful day in July and the country was looking its best. Roger rose at 7. 30 a. M. And performed those gentle, health-givingexercises which have already been described in previous chapters. Onthis glorious morning, however, he added a simple exercise for theelbows to his customary ones, and went down to his breakfast as hungryas the proverbial hunter. A substantial meal of five dried beans and astewed nut awaited him in the fine oak-panelled library; and as he didample justice to the banquet his thoughts went back to the terrible dayswhen he lived the luxurious meat-eating life of the ordinaryman-about-town; to the evening when he discovered the body of SirEustace Butt, M. P. , and swore to bring the assassin to vengeance; to theday when----

Suddenly he realised that his thoughts were wandering. With iron will hecontrolled them and concentrated fixedly on the word "dough-nut" fortwelve minutes. Greatly refreshed, he rose and strode out into the sun. 

At the door of his cottage a girl was standing. She was extremelybeautiful, and Roger's heart would have jumped if he had not had thatorgan (thanks to Twisting Exercise 23) under perfect control. 

"Is this the way to Denfield?" she asked. 

"Straight on, " said Roger. 

He returned to his cottage, breathing heavily through his ears. 

CHAPTER XCIII

ANOTHER SURPRISE

Six months went by, and the murderer of Sir Joshua Tubbs, M. P. And SirEustace Butt, M. P. Still remained at large. Roger had sold his cottagein the country and was now in London, performing his exercises withregularity, concentrating daily upon the words "wardrobe, " "dough-nut, "and "wasp, " and living entirely upon proteids. 

One day he had the idea that he would start a restaurant in the East-Endfor the sale of meatless foods. This would bring him in touch with thelower classes, among whom he expected to find the assassin of his twooldest friends. 

In less than three or four years the shop was a tremendous success. Inspite of this, however, Roger did not neglect his exercises; takingparticular care to keep the toes well turned in when lunging ten timesbackwards. (Exercise 17. ) Once, to his joy, the girl whom he had firstmet outside his country cottage came in and had her simple lunch ofSmilopat (ninepence the dab) at his shop. That evening he lunged twelvetimes to the right instead of ten. 

One day business had taken Roger to the West-End. As he was returninghome at midnight through Gordon Square, he suddenly stopped andstaggered back. 

A body lay on the ground before him!

Hastily turning it over upon its face, Roger gave a cry of horror. 

It was Detective-Inspector Frenchard! Stabbed in eleven places!

Roger hurried madly home, and devised an entirely new set of exercisesfor his morning drill. A full description of these, however, must bereserved for another chapter. 

(_And so on for ever. _)

MERELY PLAYERS

ON THE BAT'S BACK

With the idea of brightening cricket, my friend Twyford has given me anew bat. I have always felt that, in my own case, it was the inadequacyof the weapon rather than of the man behind it which accounted for acertain monotony of low-scoring; with this new bat I hope to prove thecorrectness of my theory. 

My old bat has always been a trier, but of late it has been manifestlypast its work. Again and again its drive over long-off's head has failedto carry the bunker at mid-off. More than once it has proved itself aninch too narrow to ensure that cut-past-third-man-to-the-boundary whichis considered one of the most graceful strokes in my repertoire. Worstof all, I have found it at moments of crisis (such as the beginning ofthe first over) utterly inadequate to deal with the ball which keepslow. When bowled by such a ball--and I may say that I am never bowled byany other--I look reproachfully at the bottom of my bat as I walk backto the pavilion. "Surely, " I say to it, "you were much longer than thiswhen we started out?"

Perhaps it was not magnanimous always to put the blame on my partner forour accidents together. It would have been more chivalrous to haveshielded him. "No, no, " I should have said to my companions as theyreceived me with sympathetic murmurs of "Bad luck, "--"no, no, youmustn't think that. It was my own fault. Don't reproach the bat. " Itwould have been well to have spoken thus; and indeed, when I had hadtime to collect myself, I did so speak. But out on the field, in thefirst shame of defeat, I had to let the truth come out. That onereproachful glance at my bat I could not hide. 

But there was one habit of my bat's--a weakness of old age, I admit, butnot the less annoying--about which it was my duty to let all the worldknow. One's grandfather may have a passion for the gum on the back ofpostage-stamps, and one hushes it up; but if he be deaf the visitor mustbe warned. My bat had a certain looseness in the shoulder, so that, atany quick movement of it, it clicked. If I struck the ball well andtruly in the direction of point this defect did not matter; but if theball went past me into the hands of the wicket-keeper, an unobservantbowler would frequently say, "How's that?" And an ill-informed umpirewould reply, "Out. " It was my duty before the game began to take thevisiting umpire on one side and give him a practical demonstration ofthe click ... 

But these are troubles of the past. I have my new bat now, and I can seethat cricket will become a different game for me. My practice of thismorning has convinced me of this. It was not one of your stupidpractices at the net, with two burly professionals bumping down balls atyour body and telling you to "Come out to them, Sir. " It was a quietpractice in my rooms after breakfast, with no moving object to distractmy attention and spoil my stroke. The bat comes up well. It is light, and yet there is plenty of wood in it. Its drives along the carpet wereexcellent; its cuts and leg glides all that could be wished. I was alittle disappointed with its half-arm hook, which dislodged a teacup andgave what would have been an easy catch to mid-on standing close in bythe sofa; but I am convinced that a little oil will soon put that right. 

And yet there seemed to be something lacking in it. After trying everystroke with it; after tucking it under my arm and walking back to thebathroom, touching my cap at the pianola on the way; after experimentswith it in all positions, I still felt that there was something wantingto make it the perfect bat. So I put it in a cab and went round with itto Henry. Henry has brightened first-class cricket for some years now. 

"Tell me, Henry, " I said, "what's wrong with this bat?"

"It seems all right, " he said, after waving it about. "Rather a goodone. "

I laid it down on the floor and looked at it. Then I turned it on itsface and looked at it. And then I knew. 

"It wants a little silver shield on the back, " I said. "That's it. "

"Why, is it a presentation bat?" asked Henry. 

"In a sense, yes. It was presented to me by Twyford. "

"What for?"

"Really, " I said modestly, "I hardly like---- Why do people give onethings? Affection, Henry; pity, generosity--er----"

"Are you going to put that on the shield? 'Presented out of sheer pityto----'"

"Don't be silly; of course not. I shall put 'Presented in commemorationof his masterly double century against the Authentics, ' or somethinglike that. You've no idea how it impresses the wicket-keeper. He reallysees quite a lot of the back of one's bat. "

"Your inscription, " said Henry, as he filled his pipe slowly, "will beeither a lie or extremely unimpressive. "

"It will be neither, Henry. If I put my own name on it, and talked about_my_ double century, of course it would be a lie; but the inscriptionwill be to Stanley Bolland. "

"Who's he?"

"I don't know. I've just made him up. But now, supposing my littleshield says, 'Stanley Bolland. H. P. C. C. --Season 1912. Batting average116. 34. '--how is that a lie?"

"What does H. P. C. C. Stand for?"

"I don't know. It doesn't mean anything really. I'll leave out 'Battingaverage' if it makes it more truthful. 'Stanley Bolland. H. P. C. C. , 1912. 116. 34. ' It's really just a little note I make on the back of my bat toremind me of something or other I've forgotten. 116. 34 is probablyBolland's telephone number or the size of something I want at his shop. But by a pure accident the wicket-keeper thinks it means something else;and he tells the bowler at the end of the over that it's that chapBolland who had an average of over a century for the HampsteadPolytechnic last year. Of course that makes the bowler nervous and hestarts sending down long-hops. "

"I see, " said Henry; and he began to read his paper again. 

So to-morrow I take my bat to the silversmith's and have a littleengraved shield fastened on. Of course, with a really trustworthy weaponI am certain to collect pots of runs this season. But there is no harmin making things as easy as possible for oneself. 

And yet there is this to be thought of. Even the very best bat in theworld may fail to score, and it might so happen that I was dismissed(owing to some defect in the pitch) before my silver shield had time toimpress the opposition. Or again, I might (through ill-health) performso badly that quite a wrong impression of the standard of the HampsteadPolytechnic would be created, an impression which I should hate to bethe innocent means of circulating. 

So on second thoughts I lean to a different inscription. On the back ofmy bat a plain silver shield will say quite simply this:--

 TO STANLEY BOLLAND, FOR SAVING LIFE AT SEA. FROM A FEW ADMIRERS. 

Thus I shall have two strings to my bow. And if, by any unhappy chance, I fail as a cricketer, the wicket-keeper will say to his comrades as Iwalk sadly to the pavilion, "A poor bat perhaps, but a brave--a verybrave fellow. "

It becomes us all to make at least one effort to brighten cricket. 

UNCLE EDWARD

Celia has more relations than would seem possible. I am graduallygetting to know some them by sight and a few more by name, but I stillmake mistakes. The other day, for instance, she happened to say she wasgoing to a concert with Uncle Godfrey. 

"Godfrey, " I said, "Godfrey. No, don't tell me--I shall get it in amoment. Godfrey ... Yes, that's it; he's the architect. He lives atLiverpool, has five children, and sent us the asparagus-cooler as awedding present. "

"No marks, " said Celia. 

"Then he's the unmarried one in Scotland who breeds terriers. I knew Ishould get it. "

"As a matter of fact he lives in London and breeds oratorios. "

"It's the same idea. That was the one I meant. The great point is that Iplaced him. Now give me another one. " I leant forward eagerly. 

"Well, I was just going to ask you--have you arranged anything aboutMonday?"

"Monday, " I said, "Monday. No, don't tell me--I shall get it in amoment. Monday ... He's the one who---- Oh, you mean the day of theweek?"

"Who's a funny?" asked Celia of the teapot. 

"Sorry; I really thought you meant another relation. What am I doing?I'm playing golf if I can find somebody to play with. "

"Well, ask Edward. "

I could place Edward at once. Edward, I need hardly say, is Celia'suncle; one of the ones I have not yet met. He married a very young auntof hers, not much older than Celia. 

"But I don't know him, " I said. 

"It doesn't matter. Write and ask him to meet you at the golf club. I'msure he'd love to. "

"Wouldn't he think it rather cool, this sudden attack from a perfectlyunknown nephew? I fancy the first step ought to come from uncle. "

"But you're older than he is. "

"True. It's rather a tricky point in etiquette. Well, I'll risk it. "

This was the letter I sent to him:--

 "MY DEAR UNCLE EDWARD, --Why haven't you written to me this term? I have spent the five shillings you gave me when I came back; it was awfully ripping of you to give it to me, but I have spent it now. Are you coming down to see me this term? If you aren't you might write to me; there is a post-office here where you can change postal orders. 

 "What I really meant to say was, can you play golf with me on Monday at Mudbury Hill? I am your new and favourite nephew, and it is quite time we met. Be at the club-house at 2. 30, if you can. I don't quite know how we shall recognize each other, but the well-dressed man in the nut-brown suit will probably be me. My features are plain but good, except where I fell against the bath-taps yesterday. If you have fallen against anything which would give me a clue to your face you might let me know. Also you might let me know if you are a professor at golf; if you are, I will read some more books on the subject between now and Monday. Just at the moment my game is putrid. 

 "Your niece and my wife sends her love. Good-bye. I was top of my class in Latin last week. I must now stop, as it is my bath-night. 

 "I am, "Your loving "NEPHEW. "

The next day I had a letter from my uncle:--

 "MY DEAR NEPHEW, --I was so glad to get your nice little letter and to hear that you were working hard. Let me know when it is your bath-night again; these things always interest me. I shall be delighted to play golf with you on Monday. You will have no difficulty in recognizing me. I should describe myself roughly as something like Apollo and something like Little Tich, if you know what I mean. It depends how you come up to me. I am an excellent golfer and never take more than two putts in a bunker. 

 "Till 2. 30 then. I enclose a postal-order for sixpence, to see you through the rest of the term. 

 "Your favourite uncle, "EDWARD. "

I showed it to Celia. 

"Perhaps you could describe him more minutely, " I said. "I hatewandering about vaguely and asking everybody I see if he's my uncle. Itseems so odd. "

"You're sure to meet all right, " said Celia confidently. "He's--well, he's nice-looking and--and clean-shaven--and, oh, _you'll_ recognizehim. "

At 2. 30 on Monday I arrived at the club-house and waited for my uncle. Various people appeared, but none seemed in want of a nephew. When 2. 45came there was still no available uncle. True, there was one unattachedman reading in a corner of the smoke-room, but he had a moustache--thesort of heavy moustache one associates with a major. 

At three o'clock I became desperate. After all, Celia had not seenEdward for some time. Perhaps he had grown a moustache lately; perhapshe had grown one specially for to-day. At any rate there would be noharm in asking this major man if he was my uncle. Even if he wasn't hemight give me a game of golf. 

"Excuse me, " I said politely, "but are you by any chance my UncleEdward?"

"Your _what_?"

"I was almost certain you weren't, but I thought I'd just ask. I'msorry. "

"Not at all. Naturally one wants to find one's uncle. Have you--er--losthim long?"

"Years, " I said sadly. "Er--I wonder if you would care to adopt me--Imean, give me a game this afternoon. My man hasn't turned up. "

"By all means. I'm not very great. "

"Neither am I. Shall we start now? Good. "

I was sorry to miss Edward, but I wasn't going to miss a game of golf onsuch a lovely day. My spirits rose. Not even the fact that there were nocaddies left and I had to carry my own clubs could depress me. 

The Major drove. I am not going to describe the whole game; though mycleek shot at the fifth hole, from a hanging lie to within two feet ofthe---- However, I mustn't go into that now. But it surprised the Majora good deal. And when at the next hole I laid my brassie absolutelydead, he---- But I can tell you about that some other time. It issufficient to say now that, when we reached the seventeenth tee, I wasone up. 

We both played the seventeenth well. He was a foot from the hole infour. I played my third from the edge of the green, and was ridiculouslyshort, giving myself a twenty-foot putt for the hole. Leaving my clubsI went forward with the putter, and by the absurdest luck pushed theball in. 

"Good, " said the Major. "Your game. "

I went back for my clubs. When I turned round the Major was walkingcarelessly off to the next tee, leaving the flag lying on the green andmy ball still in the tin. 

"Slacker, " I said to myself, and walked up to the hole. 

And then I had a terrible shock. I saw in the tin, not my ball, but amoustache!

"Am I going mad?" I said. "I could have sworn that I drove off with a'Colonel, ' and yet I seem to have holed out with a Major's moustache!" Ipicked it up and hurried after him. 

"Major, " I said, "excuse me, you've dropped your moustache. It fell offat the critical stage of the match; the shock of losing was too much foryou; the strain of----"

He turned his clean-shaven face round and grinned at me. 

"On second thoughts, " he said, "I _am_ your long-lost uncle. "

THE RENASCENCE OF BRITAIN

Peter Riley was one of those lucky people who take naturally to games. Actually he got his blue for cricket, rugger, and boxing, but hisperfect eye and wrist made him a beautiful player of any game with aball. Also he rode and shot well, and knew all about the inside of acar. But, although he was always enthusiastic about anything he wasdoing, he was not really keen on games. He preferred wandering about thecountry looking for birds' nests or discovering the haunts of rarebutterflies; he liked managing a small boat single-handed in a stiffbreeze; he would have enjoyed being upset and having to swim a long wayto shore. Most of all, perhaps, he loved to lie on the top of the cliffsand think of the wonderful things that he would do for England when hewas a Cabinet Minister. For politics was to be his profession, and hehad just taken a first in History by way of preparation for it. 

There were a lot of silly people who envied Peter's mother. Theythought, poor dears, that she must be very, very proud of him, for theyregarded Peter as the ideal of the modern young Englishman. "If only myboy grows up to be like Peter Riley!" they used to say to themselves;and then add quickly, "But of course he'll be much nicer. " In theirignorance they didn't see that it was the Peters of England who weremaking our country the laughing-stock of the world. 

If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he hadbeen persuaded, much against his will, to uphold the honour of GreatBritain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position inthe papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"--the result, he could onlysuppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in thestomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight hisvanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that hecould now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding. 

But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the publicexpense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold ofhim. 

"I've been watching you, young man, " he said. "You'll have to giveyourself up to me now. You're the coming champion. "

"I'm sorry, " said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again. "

"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll takegood care that you don't fight any more. The event _you're_ going to winis 'Pushing the Chisel. ' I've been watching you, and you've got the mostperfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fightingfor you, my boy; nor cricket, nor anything else. I'm not going to letyou spoil those muscles. "

"I don't think I've ever pushed the Chisel, " said Peter. "Besides, it'sover, isn't it?"

"Over? Of course it's over, and that confounded American won. 'Poor oldEngland, ' as all the papers said. "

"Then it's too late to begin to practise, " said Peter thankfully. 

"Well, it's too late for the 1920 games. But we can do a lot in eightyears, and I think I can get you fit for the 1924 games at Pekin. "

Peter stared at him in amazement. 

"My good man, " he said at last, "in 1924 I shall be in London; and Ihope in the House of Commons. "

"And what about the honour of your country? Do you want to read thejeers in the American papers when we lose 'Pushing the Chisel' in 1924?"

"I don't care a curse what the American papers say, " said Peter angrily. 

"Then you're very different from other Englishmen, " said the trainersternly. 

 . . . . . 

Of course, Peter was persuaded; he couldn't let England be thelaughing-stock of the world. So for eight years he lived under the eyeof the trainer, rising at five and retiring to bed at seven-thirty. Thisprevented him from taking much part in the ordinary social activities ofthe evening; and even his luncheon and garden-party invitations had tobe declined in some such words as "Mr. Peter Riley regrets that he isunable to accept Lady Vavasour's kind invitation for Monday the 13th, ashe will be hopping round the garden on one leg then. " His career, too, had to be abandoned; for it was plain that, even if he had the leisureto get into Parliament, the early hours he kept would not allow him totake part in any important divisions. 

But there were compensations. As he watched his calves swell; as helooked in the glass and noticed each morning that his head was a littlemore on one side--sure sign of the expert Chisel-pusher; as, still surersign, his hands became more knuckly and his mouth remained morepermanently open, he knew that his devotion to duty would not be withoutits reward. He saw already his country triumphing, and heard the chorusof congratulation in the newspapers that England was still a nation ofsportsmen.... 

In 1924 Pekin was crowded. There were, of course, the ordinary millioninhabitants; and, in addition, people had thronged from all parts tosee the great Chisel-pusher of whom so much had been heard. That theydid not come in vain, we in London knew one July morning as we openedour papers. 

 "PUSHING THE CHISEL (_Free Style_). 

 "1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H. Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified for going outside the wood. "

 . . . . . 

And so England was herself again. There was only one discordant note inher triumph. Mr. P. A. Vaile pointed out in all the papers that PeterRiley, in the usual pig-headed English way, had been employing entirelythe wrong grip. Mr. Vaile's book, _How to Push the Chisel_, illustratedwith 50 full plates of Mr. Vaile in knickerbockers pushing the Chisel, explained the correct method. 

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

"It's my birthday to-morrow, " said Mrs. Jeremy as she turned the pagesof her engagement book. 

"Bless us, so it is, " said Jeremy. "You're thirty-nine or twenty-sevenor something. I must go and examine the wine-cellar. I believe there'sone bottle left in the Apollinaris bin. It's the only stuff in the housethat fizzes. "

"Jeremy! I'm only twenty-six. "

"You don't look it, darling; I mean you do look it, dear. What Imean--well, never mind that. Let's talk about birthday presents. Thinkof something absolutely tremendous for me to give you. "

"A rope of pearls. "

"I didn't mean that sort of tremendousness, " said Jeremy quickly. "Anyone could give you a rope of pearls; it's simply a question ofoverdrawing enough from the bank. I meant something difficult that wouldreally prove my love for you--like Lloyd George's ear or the Kaiser'scigar-holder. Something where I could kill somebody for you first. I amin a very devoted mood this morning. "

"Are you really?" smiled Mrs. Jeremy. "Because----"

"I am. So is Baby, unfortunately. She will probably want to give yousomething horribly expensive. Between ourselves, dear, I shall be gladwhen Baby is old enough to buy her own presents for her mamma. LastChristmas her idea of a complete edition of Meredith and a pair ofsilver-backed brushes nearly ruined me. "

"You won't be ruined this time, Jeremy. I don't want you to give meanything; I want you to show that devotion of yours by _doing_ somethingfor me. "

"Anything, " said Jeremy grandly. "Shall I swim the Channel? I waspractising my new trudgeon stroke in the bath this morning. " He got upfrom his chair and prepared to give an exhibition of it. 

"No, nothing like that. " Mrs. Jeremy hesitated, looked anxiously at him, and then went boldly at it. "I want you to go in for that physicalculture that everyone's talking about. "

"Who's everyone? Cook hasn't said a word to me on the subject; neitherhas Baby; neither has----"

"Mrs. Hodgkin was talking to me about it yesterday. She was saying howthin you were looking. "

"The scandal that goes on in these villages, " sighed Jeremy. "And theVicar's wife too. Dear, all this is weeks and weeks old; I suppose ithas only just reached the Vicarage. Do let us be up-to-date. Physicalculture has been quite _démodé_ since last Thursday. "

"Well, _I_ never saw anything in the paper"----

"Knowing what wives are, I hid it from you. Let us now, my dear wife, talk of something else. "

"Jeremy! Not for my birthday present?" said his wife in a reproachfulvoice. "The Vicar does them every morning, " she added casually. 

"Poor beggar! But it's what Vicars are for. " Jeremy chuckled to himself. "I should love to see him, " he said. "I suppose it's private, though. Perhaps if I said 'Press'----"

"You _are_ thin, you know. "

"My dear, the proper way to get fat is not to take violent exercise, butto lie in a hammock all day and drink milk. Besides, do you want a fathusband? Does Baby want a fat father? You wouldn't like, at your nextgarden party, to have everybody asking you in a whisper, 'Who is theenormously stout gentleman?' If Nature made me thin--or, to be moreaccurate, slender and of a pleasing litheness--let us believe that sheknew best. "

"It isn't only thinness; these exercises keep you young and well andactive in mind. "

"Like the Vicar?"

"He's only just begun, " said his wife hastily. 

"Let's wait a bit and watch him, " suggested Jeremy. "If his sermonsreally get better, then I'll think about it seriously. I make you apresent of his baldness; I shan't ask for any improvement there. "

Mrs. Jeremy went over to her husband and patted the top of his head. 

"'In a very devoted mood this morning, '" she quoted. 

Jeremy looked unhappy. 

"What pains me most about this, " he said, "is the revelation of yourshortcomings as a wife. You ought to think me the picture of manlybeauty. Baby does. She thinks that, next to the postman, I am one ofthe----"

"So you are, dear. "

"Well, why not leave it? Really, I can't waste my time fattening refinedgold and stoutening the lily. I am a busy man. I walk up and down thepergola, I keep a dog, I paint little water-colours, I am treasurer ofthe cricket club; my life is full of activities. "

"This only takes a quarter of an hour before your bath, Jeremy. "

"I am shaving then; I should cut myself and get all the soap in my eyes. It would be most dangerous. When you were a widow, and Baby and the ponywere orphans, you and Mrs. Hodgkin would be sorry. But it would be toolate. The Vicar, tearing himself away from Position 5 to conduct thefuneral service----"

"Jeremy, _don't_!"

"Ah, woman, now I move you. You are beginning to see what you were indanger of doing. Death I laugh at; but a fat death--the death of a stoutman who has swallowed the shaving-brush through taking too deep a breathbefore beginning Exercise 3, that is more than I can bear. "

"Jeremy!"

"When I said I wanted to kill someone for you, I didn't think you wouldsuggest myself, least of all that you wanted me fattened up like aChristmas turkey first. To go down to posterity as the large-bodiedgentleman who inhaled the badger's hair; to be billed in the Londonpress in the words, 'Curious Fatal Accident to Adipose Treasurer'--to dothis simply by way of celebrating your twenty-sixth birthday, when weactually have a bottle of Apollinaris left in the Apollinarisbin--darling, you cannot have been thinking----"

His wife patted his head again gently. "Oh, Jeremy, you hopelessperson, " she sighed. "Give me a new sunshade. I want one badly. "

"No, " said Jeremy, "Baby shall give you that. For myself I am stillfeeling that I should like to kill somebody for you. Lloyd George? No. F. E. Smith? N-no.... " He rubbed his head thoughtfully. "Who inventedthose exercises?" he asked suddenly. 

"A German, I think. "

"Then, " said Jeremy, buttoning up his coat, "I shall go and kill_him_. "

ONE OF OUR SUFFERERS

There is no question before the country of more importance than that ofNational Health. In my own small way I have made something of a study ofit, and when a Royal Commission begins its enquiries, I shall put beforeit the evidence which I have accumulated. I shall lay particular stressupon the health of Thomson. 

"You'll beat me to-day, " he said, as he swung his club stiffly on thefirst tee; "I shan't be able to hit a ball. "

"You should have some lessons, " I suggested. 

Thomson gave a snort of indignation. 

"It's not _that_, " he said. "But I've been very seedy lately, and----"

"That's all right; I shan't mind. I haven't played a thoroughly well manfor a month, now. "

"You know, I think my liver----"

I held up my hand. 

"Not before my caddie, please, " I said severely; "he is quite a child. "

Thomson said no more for the moment, but hit his ball hard and straightalong the ground. 

"It's perfectly absurd, " he said with a shrug; "I shan't be able to giveyou a game at all. Well, if you don't mind playing a sick man----"

"Not if you don't mind being one, " I replied, and drove a ball whichalso went along the ground, but not so far as my opponent's. "There! I'mabout the only man in England who can do that when he's quite well. "

The ball was sitting up nicely for my second shot, and I managed to putit on the green. Thomson's, fifty yards farther on, was reclining in theworst part of a bunker which he had forgotten about. 

"Well, really, " he said, "there's an example of luck for you. _Your_ball----"

"I didn't do it on purpose, " I pleaded. "Don't be angry with me. "

He made two attempts to get out, and then picked his ball up. We walkedin silence to the second tee. 

"This time, " I said, "I shall hit the sphere properly, " and with aterrific swing I stroked it gently into a gorse bush. I looked at thething in disgust and then felt my pulse. Apparently I was still quitewell. Thomson, forgetting about his liver, drove a beauty. We met on thegreen. 

"Five, " I said. 

"Only five?" asked Thomson suspiciously. 

"Six, " I said, holing a very long putt. 

Thomson's health had a relapse. He took four short putts and was down inseven. 

"It's really rather absurd, " he said, in a conversational way, as wewent to the next tee, "that putting should be so ridiculously important. Take that hole, for instance. I get on the green in a perfect three; youfluff your drive completely and get on in--what was it?"

"Five, " I said again. 

"Er--five. And yet you win the hole. It _is_ rather absurd, isn't it?"

"I've often thought so, " I admitted readily. "That is to say, when I'vetaken four putts. I'm two up. "

On the third tee Thomson's health became positively alarming. He missedthe ball altogether. 

"It's ridiculous to try to play, " he said, with a forced laugh. "I can'tsee the ball at all. "

"It's still there, " I assured him. 

He struck at it again and it hurried off into a ditch. 

"Look here, " he said, "wouldn't you rather play the pro. ? This is notmuch of a match for you. "

I considered. Of course, a game with the pro. Would be much pleasanterthan a game with Thomson, but ought I to leave him in his presentserious condition of health? His illness was approaching its criticalstage, and it was my duty to pull him through if I could. 

"No, no, " I said. "Let's go on. The fresh air will do you good. "

"Perhaps it will, " he said hopefully. "I'm sorry I'm like this, but I'vehad a cold hanging about for some days, and that on the top of myliver----"

"Quite so, " I said. 

The climax was reached, at the next hole, when, with several strokes inhand, he topped his approach shot into a bunker. For my sake he tried tolook as though he had _meant_ to run it up along the ground, havingforgotten about the intervening hazard. It was a brave effort to hidefrom me the real state of his health, but he soon saw that it washopeless. He sighed and pressed his hand to his eyes. Then he held hisfingers a foot away from him, and looked at them as if he were trying tocount them correctly. His state was pitiable, and I felt that at anycost I must save him. 

I did. The corner was turned at the fifth, where I took four putts. 

"You aren't going to win _all_ the holes, " he said grudgingly, as he randown his putt. 

Convalescence set in at the sixth, when I got into an impossible placeand picked up. 

"Oh, well, I shall give you a game yet, " he said. "Two down. "

The need for further bulletins ceased at the seventh hole, which heplayed really well and won easily. 

"A-ha, you won't beat me by _much_, " he said, "in spite of my liver. "

"By the way, how _is_ the liver?" I asked. 

"Your fresh-air cure is doing it good. Of course, it may come on again, but----" He drove a screamer. "I think I shall be all right, " heannounced. 

"All square, " he said cheerily at the ninth. "I fancy I'm going to beatyou now. Not bad, you know, considering you were four up. Practicallyspeaking, I gave you a start of four holes. "

I decided that it was time to make an effort again, seeing thatThomson's health was now thoroughly re-established. Of the next sevenholes I managed to win three and halve two. It is only fair to say, though (as Thomson did several times), that I had an extraordinaryamount of good luck, and that he was dogged by ill-fortune throughout. But this, after all, is as nothing so long as one's health is abovesuspicion. The great thing was that Thomson's liver suffered no relapse;even though, at the seventeenth tee, he was one down and two to play. 

And it was on the seventeenth tee that I had to think seriously how Iwanted the match to end. Thomson at lunch when he has won is a verydifferent man from Thomson at lunch when he has lost. The more I thoughtabout it, the more I realized that I was in rather a happy position. IfI won, I won--which was jolly; if I lost, Thomson won--and we shouldhave a pleasant lunch. 

However, as it happened, the match was halved. 

"Yes, I was afraid so, " said Thomson; "I let you get too long a start. It's absurd to suppose that I can give you four holes up and beat you. It practically amounts to giving you four bisques. Four bisques is aboutsix strokes--I'm not really six strokes better than you. "

"What about lunch?" I suggested. 

"Good; and you can have your revenge afterwards. " He led the way intothe pavilion. "Now I wonder, " he said, "what I can safely eat. I wantto be able to give you _some_ sort of a game this afternoon. "

Well, if there is ever a Royal Commission upon the national physique Ishall insist on giving evidence. For it seems to me that golf, far fromimproving the health of the country, is actually undermining it. Thomson, at any rate, since he has taken to the game, has never beenquite fit. 

IN THE SWIM

"Do you tango?" asked Miss Hopkins, as soon as we were comfortablyseated. I know her name was Hopkins, because I had her down on myprogramme as Popkins, which seemed too good to be true; and, in order togive her a chance of reconsidering it, I had asked her if she was one ofthe Popkinses of Hampshire. It had then turned out that she was reallyone of the Hopkinses of Maida Vale. 

"No, " I said, "I don't. " She was only the fifth person who had asked me, but then she was only my fifth partner. 

"Oh, you ought to. You must be up-to-date, you know. "

"I'm always a bit late with these things, " I explained. "The waltz cameto England in 1812, but I didn't really master it till 1904. "

"I'm afraid if you wait as long as that before you master the tango itwill be out. "

"That's what I thought. By the time I learnt the tango, the bingo wouldbe in. My idea was to learn the bingo in advance, so as to be ready forit. Think how you'll all envy me in 1917. Think how Society will flockto my Bingo Quick Lunches. I shall be the only man in London who bingoesproperly. Of course, by 1918 you'll all be at it. "

"Then we must have one together in 1918, " smiled Miss Hopkins. 

"In 1918, " I pointed out coldly, "I shall be learning the pongo. "

My next partner had no name that I could discover, but a fund ofconversation. 

"Do you tango?" she asked me as soon as we were comfortably seated. 

"No, " I said, "I don't. But, " I added, "I once learned the minuet. "

"Oh, they're not very much alike, are they?"

"Not a bit. However, luckily that doesn't matter, because I've forgottenall the steps now. "

She seemed a little puzzled and decided to change the subject. 

"Are you going to learn the tango?" she asked. 

"I don't think so. It took me four months to learn the minuet. "

"But they're quite different, aren't they?"

"Quite, " I agreed. 

As she seemed to have exhausted herself for the moment, it was obviouslymy business to say something. There was only one thing to say. 

"Do _you_ tango?" I asked. 

"No, " she said, "I don't. "

"Are you going to learn?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Ah!" I said; and five minutes later we parted for ever. 

The next dance really was a tango, and I saw to my horror that I had aname down for it. With some difficulty I found the owner of it, andprepared to explain to her that unfortunately I couldn't dance thetango, but that for profound conversation about it I was undoubtedly theman. Luckily she explained first. 

"I'm afraid I can't do this, " she apologised. "I'm so sorry. "

"Not at all, " I said magnanimously. "We'll sit it out. "

We found a comfortable seat. 

"Do you tango?" she asked. 

I was tired of saying "No. "

"Yes, " I said. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to find somebody else to do it with?"

"Quite, thanks. The fact is I do it rather differently from the waythey're doing it here to-night. You see, I actually learnt it in theArgentine. "

She was very much interested to hear this. 

"Really? Are you out there much? I've got an uncle living there now. Iwonder if----"

"When I say I learnt it in the Argentine, " I explained, "I mean that Iwas actually taught it in St. John's Wood, but that my dancing mistresscame from----"

"In St. John's Wood?" she said eagerly. "But how funny! My sister islearning there. I wonder if----"

She was a very difficult person to talk to. Her relations seemed tospread themselves all over the place. 

"Perhaps that is hardly doing justice to the situation, " I explainedagain. "It would be more accurate to put it like this. When Idecided--by the way, does your family frequent Paris? No? Good. Well, when I decided to learn the tango, the fact that my friends theHopkinses of St. John's Wood, or rather Maida Vale, had already learntit in Paris naturally led me to---- I say, what about an ice? It'sgetting awfully hot in here. "

"Oh, I don't think----"

"I'll go and get them, " I said hastily; and I went and took a long timegetting them, and, as it turned out that she didn't want hers after all, a longer time eating them. When I was ready for conversation again thenext dance was beginning. With a bow I relinquished her to another. 

"Come along, " said a bright voice behind me; "this is ours. "

"Hallo, Norah, is that you? Come on. "

We hurried in, danced in silence, and then found ourselves a comfortableseat. For a moment neither of us spoke.... 

"Have you learnt the tango yet?" asked Norah. 

"Fourteen, " I said aloud. 

"Help! Does that mean that I'm the fourteenth person who has asked you?"

"The night is yet young, Norah. You are only the eighth. But I wasbetting that you'd ask me before I counted twenty. You lost, and you oweme a pair of ivory-backed hair-brushes and a cigar-cutter. "

"Bother! Anyhow, I'm not going to be stopped talking about the tango ifI want to. Did you know I was learning? I can do the scissors. "

"Good. We'll do the new Fleet Street movement together, thescissors-and-paste. You go into the ball-room and do the scissors, andI'll--er--stick here and do the paste. "

"Can't you really do any of it at all, and aren't you going to learn?"

"I can't do any of it at all, Norah. I am not going to learn, Norah. "

"It isn't so very difficult, you know. I'd teach you myself fortuppence. "

"Will you stop talking about it for threepence?" I asked, and I took outthree coppers. 

"No. "

I sighed and put them back again. 

 . . . . . 

It was the last dance of the evening. My hostess, finding me lonely, haddragged me up to somebody, and I and whatever her name was were in thesupper-room drinking our farewell soup. So far we had said nothing toeach other. I waited anxiously for her to begin. Suddenly she began. 

"Have you thought about Christmas presents yet?" she asked. 

I nearly swooned. With difficulty I remained in an upright position. Shewas the first person who had not begun by asking me if I danced thetango!

"Excuse me, " I said. "I'm afraid I didn't--would you tell me your nameagain?"

I felt that it ought to be celebrated in some way. I had some notion ofwriting a sonnet to her. 

"Hopkins, " she said; "I knew you'd forgotten me. "

"Of course I haven't, " I said, suddenly remembering her. The sonnetwould never be written now. "We had a dance together before. "

"Yes, " she said. "Let me see, " she added, "I did ask you if you dancedthe tango, didn't I?"

THE MEN WHO SUCCEED

THE HEIR

Mr. Trevor Pilkington, of the well-known firm of Trevor Pilkington, fixed his horn spectacles carefully upon his nose, took a pinch ofsnuff, sneezed twice, gave his papers a preliminary rustle, lookedslowly round the crowded room, and began to read the will. Through fortyyears of will-reading his method of procedure had always been the same. But Jack Summers, who was sharing an ottoman with two of the outdoorservants, thought that Mr. Pilkington's mannerisms were designedspecially to annoy him, and he could scarcely control his impatience. 

Yet no one ever had less to hope from the reading of a will than Jack. For the first twenty years of his life his parents had brought him up tobelieve that his cousin Cecil was heir to his Uncle Alfred's enormousfortune, and for the subsequent ten years his cousin Cecil had broughthis Uncle Alfred up in the same belief. Indeed, Cecil had even roughedout one or two wills for signature, and had offered to help hisuncle--who, however, preferred to do these things by himself--to holdthe pen. Jack could not help feeling glad that his cousin was not thereto parade his approaching triumph; a nasty cold, caught a weekpreviously in attending his uncle to the Lord Mayor's Show, having keptCecil in bed. 

"To the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, ten shillingsand sixpence"--the words came to him in a meaningless drone--"to theFresh Air Fund, ten shillings and sixpence; to the King Edward HospitalFund, ten shillings and sixpence"--was _all_ the money going incharities?--"to my nephew Cecil Linley, who has taken such care ofme"--Mr. Pilkington hesitated--"four shillings and ninepence; to mynephew, John Summers, whom, thank Heaven, I have never seen, fivemillion pounds----"

A long whistle of astonishment came from the ottoman. The solicitorlooked up with a frown. 

"It's the surprise, " apologised Jack. "I hardly expected so much. Ithought that that brute--I mean I thought my cousin Cecil hadnobbled--that is to say, was getting it all. "

"The late Mr. Alfred made three wills, " said the lawyer in a moment ofexpansion. "In the first he left his nephew Cecil a legacy of oneshilling and tenpence, in the second he bequeathed him a sum of threeshillings and twopence, and in the last he set aside the amount of fourshillings and ninepence. The evidence seems to show that your cousin wasrapidly rising in his uncle's estimation. You, on the other hand, havealways been a legatee to the amount of five million pounds; but in thelast will there is a trifling condition attached. " He resumed hispapers. "To my nephew, John Summers, five million pounds, on conditionthat, within one year from the date of my death, he marries MaryHuggins, the daughter of my old friend, now deceased, William Huggins. "

Jack Summers rose proudly from his end of the ottoman. 

"Thanks, " he said curtly. "That tears it. It's very kind of the oldgentleman, but I prefer to choose a wife for myself. " He bowed to thecompany and strode from the room. 

 . . . . . 

It was a cloudless August day. In the shadow of the great elms thatfringed the Sussex lane a girl sat musing; on its side in the grass ather feet a bicycle, its back wheel deflated. She sat on the grassy bankwith her hat in her lap, quite content to wait until the first passer-bywith a repairing outfit in his pocket should offer to help her. 

"Can I be of any assistance?" said a manly voice, suddenly waking herfrom her reverie. 

She turned with a start. The owner of the voice was dressed in a stylishknickerbocker suit; his eyes were blue, his face was tanned, his hairwas curly, and he was at least six foot tall. So much she noticed at aglance. 

"My bicycle, " she said; "punctured. "

In a minute he was on his knees beside the machine. A rapid examinationconvinced him that she had not over-stated the truth, and he whippedfrom his pocket the repairing outfit without which he never travelled. 

"I can do it in a moment, " he said. "At least, if you can just help me alittle. "

As she knelt beside him he could not fail to be aware of her wonderfulbeauty. The repairs, somehow, took longer than he thought. Their headswere very close together all the time, and indeed on one occasion cameviolently into contact. 

"There, " he said at last, getting up and barking his shin against thepedal. "Conf---- That will be all right. "

"Thank you, " she said tenderly. 

He looked at her without disguising his admiration; a tall, straightfigure in the sunlight, its right shin rubbing itself vigorously againstits left calf. 

"It's absurd, " he said at last; "I feel as if I've known you for years. And, anyway, I'm certain I've seen you before somewhere. "

"Did you ever go to _The Seaside Girl_?" she asked eagerly. 

"Often. "

"Do you remember the Spanish princess who came on at the beginning ofthe Second Act and said, 'Wow-wow!' to the Mayor?"

"Why, of course! And you had your photograph in _The Sketch_, _TheTatler_, _The Bystander_, and _The Sporting and Dramatic_ all in thesame week?"

The girl nodded happily. "Yes, I'm Marie Huguenot!" she said. 

"And I'm Jack Summers; so now we know each other. " He took her hand. "Marie, " he said, "ever since I have mended your bicycle--I mean, eversince I have known you, I have loved you. Will you marry me?"

"Jack!" she cooed. "You did say 'Jack, ' didn't you?"

"Bless you, Marie. We shall be very poor, dear. Will you mind?"

"Not with you, Jack. At least, not if you mean what _I_ mean by 'verypoor. '"

"Two thousand a year. "

"Yes, that's about what I meant. "

Jack took her in his arms. 

"And Mary Huggins can go and marry the Pope, " he said, with a smile. 

With a look of alarm in her eyes she pushed him suddenly away from her. There was a crash as his foot went through the front wheel of thebicycle. 

"Mary Huggins?" she cried. 

"Yes, I was left a fortune on condition that I married a person calledMary Huggins. Absurd! As though----"

"How much?"

"Oh, quite a lot if it wasn't for these confounded death duties. Fivemillion pounds. You see----"

"Jack, Jack!" cried the girl. "Don't you understand? _I_ am MaryHuggins. "

He looked at her in amazement. 

"You said your name was Marie Huguenot, " he said slowly. 

"My stage name, dear. Naturally I couldn't--I mean, one must--you knowhow particular managers are. When father died and I had to go on thestage for a living----"

"Marie, my darling!"

Mary rose and picked up her bicycle. The air had gone out of the backwheel again, and there were four spokes broken, but she did not heed it. 

"You must write to your lawyer to-night, " she said. "_Won't_ he besurprised?"

But, being a great reader of the magazines, he wasn't. 

THE STATESMAN

On a certain night in the middle of the season all London was gatheredin Lady Marchpane's drawing-room; all London, that is, which was worthknowing--a qualification which accounted for the absence of severalmillion people who had never heard of Lady Marchpane. In one corner ofthe room an Ambassador, with a few ribbons across his chest, could havebeen seen chatting to the latest American Duchess; in another corner oneof our largest Advertisers was exchanging epigrams with a titledNewspaper Proprietor. Famous Generals rubbed shoulders withPost-Impressionist Artists; Financiers whispered sweet nothings toBreeders of prize Poms; even an Actor-Manager might have been seenaccepting an apology from a Royalty who had jostled him. 

"Hallo, " said Algy Lascelles, catching sight of the dignified figure ofRupert Meryton in the crowd; "how's William?"

A rare smile lit up Rupert's distinguished features. He was UnderSecretary for Invasion Affairs, and "William" was Algy's pleasant way ofreferring to the Bill which he was now piloting through the House ofCommons. It was a measure for doing something or other by means of awhat-d'you-call-it--I cannot be more precise without precipitating aEuropean Conflict. 

"I think we shall get it through, " said Rupert calmly. 

"Lady Marchpane was talking about it just now. She's rather interested, you know. "

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. He looked overAlgy's head into the crowd. "Oh!" he said coldly. 

It was barely ten years ago that young Meryton, just down from Oxford, had startled the political world by capturing the important seat ofCricklewood (E. ) for the Tariffadicals--as, to avoid plunging thecountry into Civil War, I must call them. This was at a by-election, andthe Liberatives had immediately dissolved, only to come into power afterthe General Election with an increased majority. Through the years thatfollowed, Rupert Meryton, by his pertinacity in asking the InvasionSecretary questions which had been answered by him on the previous day, and by his regard for the dignity of the House, as shown in hisinvariable comment, "Come, come--not quite the gentleman, " upon anydisplay of bad manners opposite, established a clear right to a post inthe subsequent Tariffadical Government. He had now been Under Secretaryfor two years, and in this Bill his first real chance had come. 

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Meryton, " said a voice. "Come and talk to me amoment. " With a nod to a couple of Archbishops Lady Marchpane led theway to a little gallery whither the crowd had not penetrated. PricelessCorreggios, Tintorettos, and G. K. Chestertons hung upon the walls, butit was not to show him these that she had come. Dropping into awonderful old Chippendale chair, she motioned him to a Blundell-Mapleopposite her, and looked at him with a curious smile. 

"Well, " she said, "about the Bill?"

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. (He was rather goodat this. ) Folding his arms, he gazed steadily into Lady Marchpane'sstill beautiful eyes. 

"It will go through, " he said. "Through all its stages, " he addedprofessionally. 

"It must not go through, " said Lady Marchpane gently. 

Rupert could not repress a start, but he was master of himself again ina moment. 

"I cannot add anything to my previous statement, " he said. 

"If it goes through, " began Lady Marchpane----

"I must refer you, " said Rupert, "to my answer of yesterday. "

"Come, come, Mr. Meryton, what is the good of fencing with me? You knowthe position. Or shall I state it for you again?"

"I cannot believe you are serious. "

"I am perfectly serious. There are reasons, financial reasons--andothers--why I do not want this Bill to pass. In return for my silenceupon a certain matter, you are going to prevent it passing. You know towhat I refer. On the 4th of May last----"

"Stop!" cried Rupert hoarsely. 

"On the 4th of May last, " Lady Marchpane went on relentlessly, "you andI--in the absence of my husband abroad--had tea together at an A. B. C. "(Rupert covered his face with his hands. ) "I am no fonder of scandalthan you are, but if you do not meet my wishes I shall certainly confessthe truth to Marchpane. "

"You will be ruined too!" said Rupert. 

"My husband will forgive me and take me back. " She paused significantly. "Will Marjorie Hale----" (Rupert covered his hands with his face)--"willthe good Miss Hale forgive you? She is very strict, is she not? Andrich? And rising young politicians want money more than scandal. " Sheraised her head suddenly at the sound of footsteps. "Ah, Archbishop, Iwas just calling Mr. Meryton's attention to this wonderfulBotticell----" (she looked at it more closely)----"this wonderful DanaGibson. A beautiful piece of work, is it not?" The intruders passed onto the supper-room, and they were alone again. 

"What am I to do?" said Rupert sullenly. 

"The fate of the Bill is settled to-day week, when you make your bigspeech. You must speak against it. Confess frankly you were mistaken. Itwill be a close thing, anyhow. Your influence will turn the scale. "

"It will ruin me politically. "

"You will marry Marjorie Hale and be rich. No rich man is ever ruinedpolitically. Or socially. " She patted his hand gently. "You'll do it?"

He got up slowly. "You'll see next week, " he said. 

It is not meet that we should watch the unhappy Rupert through thelong-drawn hours of the night, as he wrestled with the terrible problem. A moment's sudden madness on that May afternoon had brought him to thecross-roads. On the one hand, reputation, wealth, the girl that heloved; on the other, his own honour and--so, at least, he had saidseveral times on the platform--the safety of England. He rose in themorning weary, but with his mind made up. 

The Bill should go through!

Rupert Meryton was a speaker of a not unusual type. Although he providedthe opinions himself, he always depended upon his secretary for thearguments with which to support them and the actual words in which togive them being. But on this occasion he felt that a special effort wasrequired of him. He would show Lady Marchpane that the blackmail ofyesterday had only roused him to a still greater effort on behalf of hiscountry. _He would write his own speech. _

On the fateful night the House was crowded. It seemed that all theguests at Lady Marchpane's a week before were in the DistinguishedStrangers' Gallery or behind the Ladies' Grille. From the Press Gallery"Our Special Word-painter" looked down upon the statesmen beneath him, his eagle eye ready to detect on the moment the Angry Flush, the Wince, or the Sudden Paling of enemy, the Grim Smile or the Lofty Calm offriend. 

The Rt. Hon. Rupert Meryton, Tariffadical Member for Cricklewood (E. )rose to his feet amidst cheers. 

"Mr. Speaker, " he said, "I rise--er--to-night, sir--h'r'm, to--er----"So much of his speech I may give, but urgent State reasons compel me towithhold the rest. Were it ever known with which Bill the secret historythat I have disclosed concerns itself, the Great Powers in an instantwould be at each other's throats. But though I may not disclose thespeech I can tell of its effect on the House. And its effect wascurious. It was, in fact, the exact opposite of what Rupert Meryton, that promising Under Secretary, had intended. 

It was the first speech that he had ever prepared himself. Than Rupertthere was no more dignified figure in the House of Commons; his honourwas proof, as we have seen, against the most insidious temptations; yet, since one man cannot have all the virtues, he was distinctly stupid. Itwould have been a hopeless speech anyhow; but, to make matters worse, hehad, in the most important part of it, attempted irony. And at thebeginning of the ironical passage even the Tariffadical word-paintershad to confess that it was their own stalwarts who "suddenly paled. "

As Lady Marchpane had said, it was bound to be a close thing. TheLiberatives and the Unialists, of course, were solid against the Bill, but there was also something of a cave in the Tariffadical Party. It wasbound to be a close thing, and Rupert's speech just made the difference. When he sat down the waverers and doubters had made up their minds. 

The Bill was defeated. 

 . . . . . 

That the Tariffadicals should resign was natural; perhaps it was equallynatural that Rupert's secretary should resign too. He said that hisreputation would be gone if Rupert made any more speeches on his own, and that he wasn't going to risk it. Without his secretary Rupert waslost at the General Election which followed. Fortunately he had agrateful friend in Lady Marchpane. She exerted her influence with theLiberatives, and got him an appointment as Governor of the StickjawIslands. Here, with his beautiful and rich wife, Sir Rupert Merytonmaintains a regal state, and upon his name no breath of scandal rests. Indeed, his only trouble so far has been with the Stickjaw language--adifficult language, but one which, perhaps fortunately, does not lenditself to irony. 

THE MAGNATE

It was in October, 19-- that the word "Zinc" first began to be heard infinancial circles. City men, pushing their dominoes regretfully away, and murmuring "Zinc" in apologetic tones, were back in their offices bythree o'clock, forgetting in their haste to leave the usual twopenceunder the cup for the waitress. Clubmen, glancing at the tape on theirway to the smoking-room, said to their neighbours, "Zinc's moved apoint, I see, " before covering themselves up with _The Times_. In thetrains, returning husbands asked each other loudly, "What's all thisabout zinc?"--all save the very innocent ones, who whispered, "I say, what _is_ zinc exactly?" The music-halls took it up. No sooner had theword "Zinc" left the lips of an acknowledged comedian than the house wasin roars of laughter. The _furore_ at the Collodium when Octavius Octo, in his world-famous part of the landlady of a boarding-house, remarked, "I know why my ole man's so late. 'E's buying zinc, " is still rememberedin the bars round Piccadilly. 

 . . . . . 

To explain it properly it will be necessary (my readers will be alarmedto hear) to go back some thirty years. This, as a simple calculationshows, takes us to June, 18--. It was in June, 18-- that Felix Moses, astout young man of attractive appearance (if you care for that style), took his courage in both hands, and told Phyllida Sloan that he wasworth ten thousand a year and was changing his name to Mountenay. MissSloan, seeing that it was the beginning of a proposal, said hastilythat she was changing hers to Abraham. 

"You're marrying Leo Abraham?" asked Felix in amazement. "Ah!" A gust ofjealousy swept over him. He licked his lips. There was a dangerous lookin his eyes--a look that was destined in after days to make Emperors andrival financiers quail. "Ah!" he said softly. "Leo Abraham! I shall notforget!"

 . . . . . 

And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) tojump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September19--. Let us on this fine September morning take a peep into "No. --Throgneedle Street, E. C. , " and see how the business of the mother cityis carried on. 

On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself. "Mr. Felix Mountenay--No admittance, " is painted upon the outer door. Itis a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay'sprivate detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side isMr. Mountenay's private wolf-hound. Murmuring the word "Press, " however, we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenayhimself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typicalfive minutes. 

For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings aretottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will hedecide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes tothe telephone. 

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. At?... _What?... _ No, Margarine _Prefs. _, idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep onselling till I tell you to stop.... Yes. "

He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smokingrapidly. He stops a moment ... But it is only to remove his cigar-band, which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Anotherminute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again. 

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. Down to now?... Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying.... Yes. "

He hangs up the receiver. By this master-stroke he has made a quarter ofa million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, butwhat, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea, the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action, the cool courage which seized the moment--what of the grasp of affairs, the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him that he earns a quarterof a million more quickly than we do?

Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coupfor a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did notsmile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar, and muttered tohimself. 

The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!"

 . . . . . 

This is positively the last row of dots. Let us take advantage of themto jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19--. (If that was aSunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October. )

Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brainrelaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month, andthe strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored himinstantly to his own cool self. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said his secretary, "but somebody is sellingzinc. "

The word "zinc" touched a chord in Mr. Mountenay's brain which had laindormant for years. Zinc! Why did zinc remind him of Leo Abraham?

"Fetch the _Encyclopedia Britannica_, quick!" he cried. 

The secretary, a man of herculean build, returned with some of it. Withthe luck which proverbially attends rich men, Mr. Mountenay picked upthe "Z" volume at once. As he read the Zinc article it all came back tohim. Leo Abraham had owned an empty zinc-mine! Was his enemy in hisclutches at last?

"Buy!" he said briefly. 

In a fortnight the secretary had returned. 

"Well, " said Mr. Mountenay, "have you bought all the zinc there is?"

"Yes, sir, " said the secretary. "And a lot that there isn't, " he added. 

"Good!" He paused a moment. "When Mr. Leo Abraham calls, " he addedgrimly, "show him up at once. "

It was a month later that a haggard man climbed the stairs of No. --Throgneedle Street, and was shown into Mr. Mountenay's room. 

"Well, " said the financier softly, "what can I do for you?"

"I want some zinc, " said Leo Abergavenny. 

"Zinc, " said Mr. Mountenay, with a smile, "is a million pounds a ton. Oran acre, or a gallon, or however you prefer to buy it, " he addedhumorously. 

Leo went white. 

"You wish to ruin me?"

"I do. A promise I made to your wife some years ago. "

"My wife?" cried Leo. "What do you mean? I'm not married. "

It was Mr. Mountenay's turn to go white. He went it. 

"Not married? But Miss Sloan----"

Mr. Leo Abergavenny sat down and mopped his face. 

"I don't know what you mean, " he said. "I asked Miss Sloan to marry me, and told her I was changing my name to Abergavenny. And she said thatshe was changing hers to Moses. Naturally, I thought----"

"Stop!" cried Mr. Mountenay. He sat down heavily. Something seemed tohave gone out of his life; in a moment the world was empty. He looked upat his old rival, and forced a laugh. 

"Well, well, " he said; "she deceived us both. Let us drink to our luckyescape. " He rang the bell. 

"And then, " he said in a purring voice, "we can have a little talk aboutzinc. After all, business is still business. "

THE DOCTOR

His slippered feet stretched out luxuriously to the fire, Dr. Venables, of Mudford, lay back in his arm-chair and gave himself up to thedelights of his Flor di Cabajo, No. 2, a box of which had been presentedto him by an apparently grateful patient. It had been a busy day. He hadprescribed more than half a dozen hot milk-puddings and a dozen changesof air; he had promised a score of times to look in again to-morrow; andthe Widow Nixey had told him yet again, but at greater length thanbefore, her private opinion of doctors. 

Sometimes Gordon Venables wondered whether it was only for this that hehad been the most notable student of his year at St. Bartholomew's. Hisbrilliance, indeed, had caused something of a sensation in medicalcircles, and a remarkable career had been prophesied for him. It wasVenables who had broken up one Suffrage meeting after another bythrowing white mice at the women on the platform; who day after day hadparaded London dressed in the costume of a brown dog, until arrested forbiting an anti-vivisector in the leg. No wonder that all the prizes ofthe profession were announced to be within his grasp, and that when heburied himself in the little country town of Mudford he was thought tohave thrown away recklessly opportunities such as were granted to few. 

He had been in Mudford for five years now. An occasional paper in _TheLancet_ on "The Recurrence of Anthro-philomelitis in Earth-worms" kepthim in touch with modern medical thought, but he could not help feelingthat to some extent his powers were rusting in Mudford. As the yearswent on his chance of Harley Street dwindled. 

"Come in, " he said in answer to a knock at the door. 

The housekeeper's head appeared. 

"There's been an accident, sir, " she gasped. "Gentleman run over!"

He snatched up his stethoscope and, without even waiting to inquirewhere the accident was, hurried into the night. Something whispered tohim that his chance had come. 

After a quarter of an hour he stopped a small boy. 

"Hallo, Johnny, " he said breathlessly, "where's the accident?"

The boy looked at him with open mouth for some moments. Then he had anidea. 

"Why, it's Doctor!" he said. 

Dr. Venables pushed him over and ran on.... 

It was in the High Street that the accident had happened. Lord Lair, aneccentric old gentleman who sometimes walked when he might have driven, had, while dodging a motor-car, been run into by a child's hoop. He laynow on the pavement surrounded by a large and interested crowd. 

"Look out, " shouted somebody from the outskirts; "here comes Doctor. "

Dr. Venables pushed his way through to his patient. His long search forthe scene of the accident had exhausted him bodily, but his mind was asclear as ever. 

"Stand back there, " he said in an authoritative voice. Then, taking outhis stethoscope, he made a rapid examination of his patient. 

"Incised wound in the tibia, " he murmured to himself. "Slight abrasionof the patella and contusion of the left ankle. The injuries are seriousbut not necessarily mortal. Who is he?"

The butcher, who had been sitting on the head of the fallen man, got upand disclosed the features of Lord Lair. Dr. Venables staggered back. 

"His lordship!" he cried. "He is a patient of Dr. Scott's! I haveattended the client of another practitioner! Professionally I amruined!"

Lord Lair, who was now breathing more easily, opened his eyes. 

"Take me home, " he groaned. 

Dr. Venables' situation was a terrible one. Medical etiquette demandedhis immediate retirement from the case, but the promptings of humanityand the thought of his client's important position in the world were toostrong for him. Throwing his scruples to the winds, he assisted the agedpeer on to a hastily improvised stretcher and accompanied him to theHall. 

His lordship once in bed, the doctor examined him again. It was obviousimmediately that there was only one hope of saving the patient's life. An injection of anthro-philomelitis must be given without loss of time. 

Dr. Venables took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He nevertravelled without a small bottle of this serum in his waistcoatpocket--a serum which, as my readers know, is prepared from theearth-worm, in whose body (fortunately) large deposits ofanthro-philomelitis are continually found. With help from a footman inholding down the patient, the injection was made. In less than a yearLord Lair was restored to health. 

 . . . . . 

Dr. Gordon Venables' case came before the British Medical Council earlyin October. The counts in the indictment were two. 

The first was that, "on the 17th of June last, Dr. Gordon Venables didfeloniously and with malice aforethought commit the disgusting andinfamous crime of attending professionally the client of anotherpractitioner. "

The second was that "in the course of rendering professional services tothe said client, Dr. Venables did knowingly and wittingly employ theassistance of one who was not a properly registered medical man, to wit, Thomas Boiling, footman, thereby showing himself to be a scurvy fellowof infamous morals. "

Dr. Venables decided to apologise. He also decided to send in an accountto Lord Lair for two hundred and fifty guineas. He justified this tohimself mainly on the ground that, according to a letter in that week's_Lancet_, the supply of anthro-philomelitis in earth-worms was suddenlygiving out, and that it was necessary to recoup himself for the generousquantity he had injected into Lord Lair. Naturally, also, he felt thathis lordship, as the author of the whole trouble, owed him something. 

The Council, in consideration of his apology, dismissed the first count. On the second count, however, they struck him off the register. 

It was a terrible position for a young doctor to be in, but GordonVenables faced it like a man. With Lord Lair's fee in his pocket he cameto town and took a house in Harley Street. When he had paid the firstquarter's rent and the first instalment on the hired furniture, he hadfifty pounds left. 

Ten pounds he spent on embossed stationery. 

Forty pounds he spent on postage-stamps. 

For the next three months no journal was complete without a letter from999 Harley Street, signed "Gordon Venables, " in which the iniquity ofhis treatment by the British Medical Council was dwelt upon with thefervour of a man who knew his subject thoroughly; no such letter wascomplete without a side-reference to anthro-philomelitis (as found, happily, in earth-worms) and the anthro-philomelitis treatment (asrecommended by peers). Six months previously the name of Venables hadbeen utterly unknown to the man in the street. In three months' time itwas better known even than ----'s, the well-known ----. 

One-half of London said he was an infamous quack. 

The other half of London said he was a martyred genius. 

Both halves agreed that, after all, one might as well _try_ this newwhat-you-may-call-it treatment, just to see if there was anything _in_it, don't you know. 

It was only last week that Mr. Venables made an excellent speech againstthe super-tax. 

THE NEWSPAPER PROPRIETOR

The great Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, pacedthe floor of his luxurious apartment with bowed head, his corrugatedcountenance furrowed with lines of anxiety. He had just returned from alunch with all his favourite advertisers ... But it was not this whichtroubled him. He was thinking out a new policy for _The Daily Vane_. 

Suddenly he remembered something. Coming up to town in his third motor, he had glanced through the nineteen periodicals which his house hadpublished that morning, and in one case had noted matter for seriouscriticism. This was obviously the first business he must deal with. 

He seated himself at his desk and pushed the bell marked "38. " Instantlya footman presented himself with a tray of sandwiches. 

"What do you want?" said Strong coldly. 

"You rang for me, sir, " replied the trembling menial. 

"Go away, " said Strong. Recognizing magnanimously, however, that themistake was his own, he pressed bell "28. " In another moment the editorof _Sloppy Chunks_ was before him. 

"In to-day's number, " said Strong, as he toyed with a blue pencil, "youapologize for a mistake in last week's number. " He waited sternly. 

"It was a very bad mistake, sir, I'm afraid. We did a great injusticeto----"

"You know my rule, " said Strong. "The mistake of last week I could haveoverlooked. The apology of this week is a more serious matter. You willask for a month's salary on your way out. " He pressed a button and theeditor disappeared through the trap-door. 

Alone again, Hector Strong thought keenly for a moment. Then he pressedbell "38. " Instantly a footman presented himself with a tray ofsandwiches. 

"What do you mean by this?" roared Strong, his iron self-control for amoment giving way. 

"I b-beg your pardon, sir, " stammered the man. "I th-thought----"

"Get out!" As the footman retired, Strong passed his hand across hisforehead. "My memory is bad to-day, " he murmured, and pushed bell "48. "

A tall thin man entered. 

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Brownlow, " said the Proprietor. He toyed withhis blue pencil. "Let me see, which of our papers are under your chargeat the moment?"

Mr. Brownlow reflected. 

"Just now, " he said, "I am editing _Snippety Snips_, _The Whoop_, _TheGirls' Own Aunt_, _Parings_, _Slosh_, _The Sunday Sermon_, and _BackChat_. "

"Ah! Well, I want you to take on _Sloppy Chunks_ too for a little while. Mr. Symes has had to leave us. "

"Yes, sir. " Mr. Brownlow bowed and moved to the door. 

"By the way, " Strong said, "your last number of _Slosh_ was very good. Very good indeed. I congratulate you. Good day. "

Left alone, Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, resumed his pacings. His two mistakes with the bell told him that he wasdistinctly not himself this afternoon. Was it only the need of a newpolicy for _The Vane_ which troubled him? Or was it----

Could it be Lady Dorothy?

Lady Dorothy Neal was something of an enigma to Hector Strong. He wasmaking more than a million pounds a year, and yet she did not want tomarry him. Sometimes he wondered if the woman were quite sane. Yet, mador sane, he loved her. 

A secretary knocked and entered. He waited submissively for half an houruntil the Proprietor looked up. 

"Well?"

"Lady Dorothy Neal would like to see you for a moment, sir. "

"Show her in. "

Lady Dorothy came in brightly. 

"What nice-looking men you have here, " she said. "Who is the one in theblue waistcoat? He has curly hair. "

"You didn't come to talk about _him_?" said Hector reproachfully. 

"I didn't come to talk _to_ him really, but if you keep me waiting halfan hour---- Why, what are you doing?"

Strong looked up from the note he was writing. The tender lines had gonefrom his face, and he had become the stern man of action again. 

"I am giving instructions that the services of my commissionaire, hall-boy, and fifth secretary will no longer be required. "

"Don't do that, " pleaded Dorothy. 

Strong tore up the note and turned to her. "What do you want of me?" heasked. 

She blushed and looked down. "I--I have written a--a play, " shefaltered. 

He smiled indulgently. He did not write plays himself, but he knew thatother people did. 

"When does it come off?" he asked. 

"The manager says it will have to at the end of the week. It came _on_ aweek ago. "

"Well, " he smiled, "if people don't want to go, I can't make them. "

"Yes, you can, " she said boldly. 

He gave a start. His brain working at lightning speed saw thepossibilities in an instant. At one stroke he could win Lady Dorothy'sgratitude, provide _The Daily Vane_ with a temporary policy, and give aconvincing exhibition of the power of his press. 

"Oh, Mr. Strong----"

"Hector, " he whispered. As he rose from his desk to go to her, heaccidentally pressed the button of the trap-door. The next moment he wasalone. 

 . . . . . 

"That the British public is always ready to welcome the advent of aclean and wholesome home-grown play is shown by the startling success of_Christina's Mistake_, which is attracting such crowds to The King'severy night. " So wrote _The Daily Vane_, and continued in the samestrain for a column. 

"Clubland is keenly exercised, " wrote _The Evening Vane_, "over aproblem of etiquette which arises in the Second Act of _Christina'sMistake_, the great autumn success at The King's Theatre. The point isshortly this. Should a woman ... " And so on. 

"A pretty little story is going the rounds, " said _Slosh_, "anent thatcharming little lady, Estelle Rito, who plays the part of a governess in_Christina's Mistake_, for which ('Manager' Barodo informs me) advancebooking up to Christmas has already been taken. It seems that Miss Rito, when shopping in the purlieus of Bond Street ... "

_Sloppy Chunks_ had a joke which set all the world laughing. It wascalled----

 "BETWEEN THE ACTS

 _Flossie. _ 'Who's the lady in the box with Mr. Johnson?'

 _Gussie. _ 'Hush! It's his wife!'

 And Flossie giggled so much that she could hardly listen to the last Act of _Christina's Mistake_, which she had been looking forward to for weeks!"

_The Sunday Sermon_ offered free tickets to a hundred unmarried suburbangirls, to which class _Christina's Mistake_ might be supposed to make aspecial religious appeal. But they had to collect coupons first for _TheSunday Sermon_. 

And, finally, _The Times_, of two months later, said:

"A marriage has been arranged between Lady Dorothy Neal, daughter of theEarl of Skye, and the Hon. Geoffrey Bollinger. "

 . . . . . 

Than a successful revenge nothing is sweeter in life. Hector Strong wasnot the man to spare anyone who had done him an injury. Yet I think hismethod of revenging himself upon Lady Dorothy savoured of thediabolical. He printed a photograph of her in _The Daily PictureGallery_. It was headed "The Beautiful Lady Dorothy Neal. "

THE COLLECTOR

When Peter Plimsoll, the Glue King, died, his parting advice to his sonsto stick to the business was followed only by John, the elder. Adrian, the younger, had a soul above adhesion. He disposed of his share in theconcern and settled down to follow the life of a gentleman of taste andculture and (more particularly) patron of the arts. He began in a modestway to collect ink-pots. His range at first was catholic, and it was notuntil he had acquired a hundred and forty-seven ink-pots of variousdesigns that he decided to make a speciality of historic ones. Thisdecision was hastened by the discovery that one of Queen Elizabeth'sinkstands--supposed (by the owner) to be the identical one with whoseaid she wrote her last letter to Raleigh--was about to be put on themarket. At some expense Adrian obtained an introduction, through a thirdparty, to the owner; at more expense the owner obtained, through thesame gentleman, an introduction to Adrian; and in less than a month thegreat Elizabeth Ink-pot was safely established in Adrian's house. It wasthe beginning of the "Plimsoll Collection. "

This was twenty years ago. Let us to-day take a walk through thegalleries of Mr. Adrian Plimsoll's charming residence, which, as theworld knows, overlooks the park. Any friend of mine is always welcome atNumber Fifteen. We will start with the North Gallery; I fear that Ishall only have time to point out a few of the choicest gems. 

This is a Pontesiori sword of the thirteenth century--the only exampleof the master's art without any notches. 

On the left is a Capricci comfit-box. If you have never heard ofCapricci, you oughtn't to come to a house like this. 

Here we have before us the historic de Montigny topaz. Ask your littleboy to tell you about it. 

In the East Gallery, of course, the chief treasure is the Santo di Santoamulet, described so minutely in his _Vindiciæ Veritatis_ by John ofFlanders. The original MS. Of this book is in the South Gallery. Youmust glance at it when we get there. It will save you the trouble ofordering a copy from your library; they would be sure to keep youwaiting.... 

With some such words as these I lead my friends round Number Fifteen. The many treasures in the private parts of the house I may not show, ofcourse; the bathroom, for instance, in which hangs the finest collectionof portraits of philatelists that Europe can boast. You must spend anight with Adrian to be admitted to their company; and, as one of theelect, I can assure you that nothing can be more stimulating on awinter's morning than to catch the eye of Frisby Dranger, F. Ph. S. , behind the taps as your head first emerges from the icy waters. 

 . . . . . 

Adrian Plimsoll sat at breakfast, sipping his hot water and crumbling adry biscuit. A light was in his eye, a flush upon his pallidcountenance. He had just heard from a trusty agent that the Scutoribreast-plate had been seen in Devonshire. His car was ready to take himto the station. 

But alas! a disappointment awaited him. On close examination thebreast-plate turned out to be a common Risoldo of inferior working. Adrian left the house in disgust and started on his seven-mile walkback to the station. To complete his misery a sudden storm came on. Cursing alternately his agent and Risoldo, he made his way to a cottageand asked for shelter. 

An old woman greeted him civilly and bade him come in. 

"If I may just wait till the storm is over, " said Adrian, and he satdown in her parlour and looked appraisingly (as was his habit) round theroom. The grandfather clock in the corner was genuine, but he was beyondgrandfather clocks. There was nothing else of any value: three chinadogs and some odd trinkets on the chimney-piece; a print or two----

Stay! What was that behind the youngest dog?

"May I look at that old bracelet?" he asked, his voice trembling alittle; and without waiting for permission he walked over and took upthe circle of tarnished metal in his hands. As he examined it his colourcame and went, his heart seemed to stop beating. With a tremendouseffort he composed himself and returned to his chair. 

_It was the Emperor's Bracelet!_

Of course you know the history of this most famous of all bracelets. Made by Spurius Quintus of Rome in 47 B. C. , it was given by Cæsar toCleopatra, who tried without success to dissolve it in vinegar. Returning to Rome by way of Antony, it was worn at a minor conflagrationby Nero, after which it was lost sight of for many centuries. It waseventually heard of during the reign of Canute (or Knut, as his admirerscalled him); and John is known to have lost it in the Wash, whence itwas recovered a century afterwards. It must have travelled thence toFrance, for it was seen once in the possession of Louis XI; and fromthere to Spain, for Philip the Handsome presented it to Joanna on herwedding day. Columbus took it to America, but fortunately brought itback again; Peter the Great threw it at an indifferent musician; on oneof its later visits to England Pope wrote a couplet to it. And the mostastonishing thing in its whole history was that now for more than ahundred years it had vanished completely. To turn up again in a littleDevonshire cottage! Verily, truth is stranger than fiction. 

"That's rather a curious bracelet of yours, " said Adrian casually. "My--er--wife has one just like it, which she asked me to match. Is itan old friend, or would you care to sell it?"

"My mother gave it me, " said the old woman, "and she had it from hers. Idon't know no further than that. I didn't mean to sell it, but----"

"Quite right, " said Adrian, "and, after all, I can easily get another. "

"But I won't say a bit of money wouldn't be useful. What would you thinka fair price, sir? Five shillings?"

Adrian's heart jumped. To get the Emperor's bracelet for five shillings!

But the spirit of the collector rose up strong within him. He laughedkindly. 

"My good woman, " he said, "they turn out bracelets like that inBirmingham at two shillings apiece. And quite new. I'll give youtenpence. "

"Make it one-and-sixpence, " she pleaded. "Times are hard. "

Adrian reflected. He was not, strictly speaking, impoverished. He couldafford one-and-sixpence. 

"One-and-tuppence, " he said. 

"No, no, one-and-sixpence, " she repeated obstinately. 

Adrian reflected again. After all, he could always sell it for tenthousand pounds, if the worst came to the worst. 

"Well, well, " he sighed. "One-and-sixpence let it be. "

He counted out the money carefully. Then, putting the precious braceletin his pocket, he rose to go. 

 . . . . . 

Adrian has no relations living now. When he dies he proposes to leavethe Plimsoll Collection to the nation, having--as far as he canforesee--no particular use for it in the next world. This is really verygenerous of him, and no doubt, when the time comes, the papers will sayso. But it is a pity that he cannot be appreciated properly in hislifetime. Personally I should like to see him knighted. 

THE ADVENTURER

Lionel Norwood, from his earliest days, had been marked out for a lifeof crime. When quite a child he was discovered by his nurse killingflies on the window-pane. This was before the character of the house-flyhad become a matter of common talk among scientists, and Lionel (likeall great men, a little before his time) had pleaded hygiene in vain. Hewas smacked hastily and bundled off to a preparatory school, where hisaptitude for smuggling sweets would have lost him many a half-holidayhad not his services been required at outside-left in the hockey eleven. With some difficulty he managed to pass into Eton, and three yearslater--with, one would imagine, still more difficulty--managed to getsuperannuated. At Cambridge he went down-hill rapidly. He would thinknothing of smoking a cigar in academical costume, and on at least oneoccasion he drove a dogcart on Sunday. No wonder that he was requested, early in his second year, to give up his struggle with the Little-go andbetake himself back to London. 

London is always glad to welcome such people as Lionel Norwood. In noother city is it so simple for a man of easy conscience to earn a livingby his wits. If Lionel ever had any scruples (which, after a perusal ofthe above account of his early days, it may be permitted one to doubt)they were removed by an accident to his solicitor, who was run over inthe Argentine on the very day that he arrived there with what was leftof Lionel's money. Reduced suddenly to poverty, Norwood had no choicebut to enter upon a life of crime. 

Except, perhaps, that he used slightly less hair-oil than most, heseemed just the ordinary man about town as he sat in his dressing-gownone fine summer morning and smoked a cigarette. His rooms were furnishedquietly and in the best of taste. No signs of his nefarious professionshowed themselves to the casual visitor. The appealing letters from thePrincess whom he was blackmailing, the wire apparatus which shot the twoof spades down his sleeve during the coon-can nights at the club, thethimble and pea with which he had performed the three-card trick sosuccessfully at Epsom last week--all these were hidden away from thecommon gaze. It was a young gentleman of fashion who lounged in hischair and toyed with a priceless straight-cut. 

There was a tap at the door, and Masters, his confidential valet, camein. 

"Well, " said Lionel, "have you looked through the post?"

"Yes, sir, " said the man. "There's the usual cheque from Her Highness, arequest for more time from the lady in Tite Street with twopence to payon the envelope, and banknotes from the Professor as expected. The younggentleman of Hill Street has gone abroad suddenly, sir. "

"Ah!" said Lionel, with a sudden frown. "I suppose you'd better crosshim off our list, Masters. "

"Yes, sir. I had ventured to do so, sir. I think that's all, except thatMr. Snooks is glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner and bridgeto-night. Will you wear the hair-spring coat, sir, or the metal clip?"

Lionel made no answer. He sat plunged in thought. When he spoke it wasabout another matter. 

"Masters, " he said, "I have found out Lord Fairlie's secret at last. Ishall go to see him this afternoon. "

"Yes, sir. Will you wear your revolver, sir, as it's a first call?"

"I think so. If this comes off, Masters, it will make our fortune. "

"I hope so, I'm sure, sir. " Masters placed the whisky within reach andleft the room silently. 

Alone, Lionel picked up his paper and turned to the Agony Column. 

As everybody knows, the Agony Column of a daily paper is not actually sodomestic as it seems. When "Mother" apparently says to "Floss, " "Comehome at once. Father gone away for week. Bert and Sid longing to seeyou, " what is really happening is that Barney Hoker is telling JudBatson to meet him outside the Duke of Westminster's little place at 3a. M. Precisely on Tuesday morning, not forgetting to bring his jemmy anda dark lantern with him. And Floss's announcement next day, "Coming homewith George, " is Jud's way of saying that he will turn up all right, andhalf thinks of bringing his automatic pistol with him too, in case ofaccidents. 

In this language--which, of course, takes some little learning--LionelNorwood had long been an expert. The advertisement which he was nowreading was unusually elaborate:

 "Lost, in a taxi between Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, a gold-mounted umbrella with initials 'J. P. ' on it. If Ellen will return to her father immediately all will be forgiven. White spot on foreleg. Mother very anxious and desires to return thanks for kind enquiries. Answers to the name of Ponto. _Bis dat qui cito dat. _"

What did it mean? For Lionel it had no secrets. He was reading therevelation by one of his agents of the skeleton in Lord Fairlie'scupboard!

Lord Fairlie was one of the most distinguished members of the Cabinet. His vein of high seriousness, his lofty demeanour, the sincerity of hismanner endeared him not only to his own party, but even (astounding asit may seem) to a few high-minded men upon the other side, who admitted, in moments of expansion which they probably regretted afterwards, thathe might, after all, be as devoted to his country as they were. Foryears now his life had been without blemish. It was impossible tobelieve that even in his youth he could have sown any wild oats;terrible to think that these wild oats might now be coming home toroost. 

"What do you require of me?" he said courteously to Lionel, as thelatter was shown into his study. 

Lionel went to the point at once. 

"I am here, my lord, " he said, "on business. In the course of myordinary avocations"--the parliamentary atmosphere seemed to beaffecting his language--"I ascertained a certain secret in your pastlife which, if it were revealed, might conceivably have a not undamagingeffect upon your career. For my silence in this matter I must demand asum of fifty thousand pounds. "

Lord Fairlie had grown paler and paler as this speech proceeded. 

"What have you discovered?" he whispered. Alas! he knew only too wellwhat the damning answer would be. 

"_Twenty years ago_, " said Lionel, "_you wrote a humorous book_. "

Lord Fairlie gave a strangled cry. His keen mind recognized in a flashwhat a hold this knowledge would give his enemies. _Shafts of Folly_, his book had been called. Already he saw the leading articles of thefuture:--

 "We confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to know whether Lord Fairlie's speech at Plymouth yesterday was intended as a supplement to his earlier work, _Shafts of Folly_, or as a serious offering to a nation impatient of levity in such a crisis.... "

 "The Cabinet's jester, in whom twenty years ago the country lost an excellent clown without gaining a statesman, was in great form last night.... "

 "Lord Fairlie has amused us in the past with his clever little parodies; he may amuse us in the future; but as a statesman we can only view him with disgust.... "

"Well?" said Lionel at last. "I think your lordship is wise enough tounderstand. The discovery of a sense of humour in a man of youreminence----"

But Lord Fairlie was already writing out the cheque. 

THE EXPLORER

As the evening wore on--and one young man after another asked JocelynMontrevor if she were going to Ascot, what? or to Henley, what? orwhat?--she wondered more and more if this were all that life would everhold for her. Would she never meet a man, a real man who had _done_something? These boys around her were very pleasant, she admitted toherself; very useful indeed, she added, as one approached her with somerefreshment; but they were only boys. 

"Here you are, " said Freddy, handing her an ice in three colours. "I'vehad it made specially cold for you. They only had the green, pink, andyellow jerseys left; I hope you don't mind. The green part is arsenic, Ibelieve. If you don't want the wafer I'll take it home and put itbetween the sashes of my bedroom window. The rattling kept me awake alllast night. That's why I'm looking so ill, by the way. "

Jocelyn smiled kindly and went on with her ice. 

"That reminds me, " Freddy went on, "we've got a nut here to-night. Thegenuine thing. None of your society Barcelonas or suburban Filberts. Oneof the real Cob family; the driving-from-the-sixth-tee, inset-on-the-right, and New-Year's-message-to-the-country touch. Inshort, a celebrity. "

"Who?" asked Jocelyn eagerly. Perhaps here was a man. 

"Worrall Brice, the explorer. Don't say you haven't heard of him or AuntAlice will cry. "

Heard of him? Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn't?

Worrall Brice's adventures in distant parts of the empire would havefilled a book--had, in fact, already filled three. A glance at his flatin St. James's Street gave you some idea of the adventures he had beenthrough. Here were the polished spurs of his companion in the famousride through Australia from south to north--all that had been left bythe cannibals of the Wogga-Wogga River after their banquet. Here was thepoisoned arrow which, by the merciful intervention of Providence, justmissed Worrall and pierced the heart of one of his black attendants, thepost-mortem happily revealing the presence of a new and interestingpoison. Here, again, was the rope with which he was hanged by mistake asa spy in South America--a mistake which would certainly have had fatalresults if he had not had the presence of mind to hold his breath duringthe performance. In yet another corner you might see his favouritemascot--a tooth of the shark which bit him off the coast of China. Spears, knives, and guns lined the walls; every inch of the floor wascovered by skins. His flat was typical of the man--a man who had _done_things. 

"Introduce him to me, " commanded Jocelyn. "Where is he?"

She looked up suddenly and saw him entering the ball-room. He was ofcommanding height and his face was the face of a man who has beenexposed to the forces of Nature. The wind, the waves, the sun, themosquito had set their mark upon him. Down one side of his cheek was anewly healed scar, a scratch from a hippopotamus in its lastdeath-struggle. A legacy from a bison seared his brow. 

He walked with the soft easy tread of the python, or the Pathan, or someanimal with a "pth" in it. Probably I mean the panther. He bore himselfconfidently, and his mouth was a trap from which no superfluous wordescaped. He was the strong silent man of Jocelyn's dreams. 

"Mr. Worrall Brice, Miss Montrevor, " said Freddy, and left them. 

Worrall Brice bowed and stood beside her with folded arms, his gazefixed above her head. 

"I shall not expect you to dance, " said Jocelyn, with a confidentialsmile which implied that he and she were above such frivolities. As amatter of fact, he could have taught her the Wogga-Wogga one-step, theBimbo, the Kiyi, the Ju-bu, the Head-hunter's Hug, and many othercannibalistic steps which, later on, were to become the rage of Londonand the basis of a _revue_. 

"I have often imagined you, as you kept watch over your camp, " she wenton, "and I have seemed myself to hear the savages and lions roaringoutside the circle of fire, what time in the swamps the crocodiles werebarking. "

"Yes, " he said. 

"It must be a wonderful life. "

"Yes. "

"If I were a man I should want to lead such a life; to get away from allthis, " and she waved her hand round the room, "back to Nature. To knowthat I could not eat until I had first killed my dinner; that I couldnot live unless I slew the enemy! That must be fine!"

"Yes, " said Worrall. 

"I cannot get Freddy to see it. He is quite content to have shot a fewgrouse ... And once to have wounded a beater. There must be more in lifethan that. "

"Yes. "

"I suppose I am elemental. Beneath the veneer of civilization I am asavage. To wake up with the war-cry of the enemy in my ears, to sleepwith the--er--barking of the crocodile in my dreams, that is life!"

Worrall Brice tugged at his moustache and gazed into space over herhead. Then he spoke. 

"Crocodiles don't bark, " he said. 

Jocelyn looked at him in astonishment. "But in your book, _ThroughTrackless Paths_!" she cried. "I know it almost by heart. It was you whotaught me. What are the beautiful words? 'On the banks of the sleepyriver two great crocodiles were barking. '"

"Not 'barking, '" said Worrall. "'Basking. ' It was a misprint. "

"Oh!" said Jocelyn. She had a moment's awful memory of all the occasionswhen she had insisted that crocodiles barked. There had been aparticularly fierce argument with Meta Richards, who had refused toweigh even the printed word of Worrall Brice against the silence of theReptile House on her last visit to the Zoo. 

"Well, " smiled Jocelyn, "you must teach me about these things. Will youcome and see me?"

"Yes, " said Worrall. He rather liked to stand and gaze into the distancewhile pretty women talked to him. And Jocelyn was very pretty. 

"We live in South Kensington. Come on Sunday, won't you? 99 PeeleCrescent. "

"Yes, " said Worrall. 

 . . . . . 

On Sunday Jocelyn waited eagerly for him in the drawing-room of PeeleCrescent. Her father was asleep in the library, her mother was dead; soshe would have the great man to herself for an afternoon. Later shewould have him for always, for she meant to marry him. And when theywere married she was not so sure that they would live with the noise ofthe crocodile barking or coughing, or whatever it did, in their ears. She saw herself in that little house in Green Street with the noise ofmotor-horns and taxi-whistles to soothe her to sleep. 

Yet what a man he was! What had he said to her? She went over all hiswords.... They were not many. 

At six o'clock she was still waiting in the drawing-room at PeeleCrescent.... 

At six-thirty Worrall Brice had got as far as Peele Place.... 

At six-forty-five he found himself in Radcliffe Square again.... 

At seven o'clock, just as he was giving himself up for lost, he met ataxi and returned to St. James's Street. He was a great traveller, butSouth Kensington had been too much for him. 

Next week he went back unmarried to the jungle. It was the narrowestescape he had had. 

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