I am afraid
there is only one word for it; it is a word that I hesitate to use, but
the truth must prevail--Simpson is _rough_. He _lets himself go_. He
plays _all he knows_. Whenever I take Simpson out anywhere I always
whisper to my hostess, "_Not_ musical chairs."

The last event of the evening was the hat-making competition. Each man
of us was provided with five large sheets of coloured crinkly paper, a
packet 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 the
Park?" 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 fifteen
guineas--or three-and-ninepence if you buy it at our other establishment
in Battersea."

"Now then, I can get going," I said, and I began to cut out a white
feather. "Yes, your ladyship, this is from the genuine bird on our own
ostrich farm in the Fulham Road. Plucked while the ingenuous biped had
its head in the sand. I shall put that round the brim," and I pinned it
round.

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

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

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

"I've got about one William Allan Richardson and a couple of canaries
over," 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 nice
quiet 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. "The
first prize," he said, "goes to----"

But I had swooned.

. . . . .

"Well," said Archie, "the Rabbits return to England with two cups won on
the snowfields of Switzerlan