the house there's a place where there will be about
a million roses when June comes round, and all along the side of the
rose-garden is a high wall of old red brick which shuts off the kitchen
garden. I went exploring there this morning. It's an enormous place,
with hot-houses and things, and there's the cunningest farm at one end
with a stable yard full of puppies that just tear the heart out of you,
they're so sweet. And a big, sleepy cat, which sits and blinks in
the sun and lets the puppies run all over her. And there's a lovely
stillness, and you can hear everything growing. And thrushes and
blackbirds... Oh, Ginger, it's heavenly!

But there's a catch. It's a case of "Where every prospect pleases and
only man is vile." At least, not exactly vile, I suppose, but terribly
stodgy. I can see now why you couldn't hit it off with the Family.
Because I've seen 'em all! They're here! Yes, Uncle Donald and all of
them. Is it a habit of your family to collect in gangs, or have I just
happened to stumble into an accidental Old Home Week? When I came down
to dinner the first evening, the drawing-room was full to bursting
point--not simply because Fillmore was there, but because there were
uncles and aunts all over the place. I felt like a small lion in a den
of Daniels. I know exactly now what you mean about the Family. They look
at you! Of course, it's all right for me, because I am snowy white clear
through, but I can just imagine what it must have been like for you with
your permanently guilty conscience. You must have had an awful time.

By the way, it's going to be a delicate business getting this letter
through to you--rather like carrying the despatches through the enemy's
lines in a Civil War play. You're supposed to leave letters on the table
in the hall, and someone collects them in the afternoon and takes them
down to the village on a bicycle. But, if I do that some aunt or uncle
is bound to see it, and I shall be an object of loathing, for it is no
light matter, my lad, to be caught having correspondence with a human
Jimpson weed like you. It would blast me socially. At least, so I gather
from the way they behaved when your name came up at dinner last night.
Somebody mentioned you, and the most awful roasting party broke loose.
Uncle Donald acting as cheer-leader. I said feebly that I had met you
and had found you part human, and there was an awful silence till they
all started at the same time to show me where I