ith myself and existence generally. At the
moment my _moral_ is as high as Mount Everest."

"Yes, I noticed something like that," Woggles agreed. "More tea?
It's only about your fifth cup." Suddenly serious, she went on: "I
wonder--is there much to be happy about just now? Dad thinks not; and
so do I, rather. Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather
find faces in the fire?"

"Please I want to talk about it."

"Carry on then. Fortify yourself with that last bit of 'Delight.'"

In spite of this reinforcement I found it wasn't so very easy to
begin.

"Well," I said slowly, "I expect the foundation of my _joie de vivre_
is a great relief that the War's over. Lots of troops celebrated that
with song and dance and so forth on November 11th and subsequent
nights; I'm spreading it over a much longer time. In a way it's like
having a death sentence repealed, for millions of us. Not the heroic
spirit, is it?--but there you are."

"Of course everyone feels that," Woggles admitted. "Only now that it
_is_ all over, aren't we sort of looking round and counting the cost?
Thinking that all this loss of life and suffering hasn't made the
world so very much better? Look at Russia and our strikes. Doesn't
Bolshevism worry you?" she asked.

"The fact is," I told her, "I believe I've evolved a philosophy of
life which nothing of that kind can seriously disturb--or I hope not.
It's very jolly to feel like that."

"It must be. May we have this philosophy, please? Perhaps you'll make
a disciple."

"It's an awfully simple one really, only I think people lose sight of
it so strangely. Just to realise the extraordinary pleasure everyday
things can give you--if you'll only let them. You compree that?"

"It doesn't sound very convincing," Woggles objected. "Everyday
things! As for instance?"

"Oh, what shall I say? One of those really fine mornings; huge white
clouds in a deep blue sky; the feel of a good drive at golf; smoke
from cottage chimneys at dusk; wondering what's round the next corner
of an unknown road; bare branches at night with the stars tangled in
them; the wind that blows across these downs of ours; the music of a
sentence of STEVENSON'S; Bogie here and his funny little ways--Well, I
needn't go on?"

"No, you needn't," said Woggles thoughtfully and looked at me rather
hard for a space. "We're old friends, aren't we, and all that sort of
thing?" she demanded.

"What a question! I hope we are. But why?"

"