d it before the millenium. I daresay any
time next month you will still find us here poring over these identical
books, but we shall be _dead_ then--there is at least comfort in that
thought."

"One wouldn't think so, to look at you," said Gore, pleasantly.

"You can go away, Roger, you really can," says Dulce, irritably. "You
are not the least use to me, and I hate grumblers."

"Perhaps it is the Empress of India," says Dicky Browne, who has come
over to the table, driven by sheer curiosity, and is now leaning on
Roger's shoulder. "She 'is of enormous length, and the handsomest this
year. She is beautifully shaped throughout, with scarcely any handle.'
Oh, I say, hasn't the Queen a handle to her name? What an aspersion upon
her royal dignity."

"Ah! here is Fabian! Now, you may go away, all of you," said Dulce, with
fine contempt. "He will really be of some use to me. Fabian, what is the
name of the cucumber that tiresome McIlray wants? I am worn out, almost
in hysterics, trying to remember it."

"What a pity you didn't ask me sooner," says Fabian. "It is all right. I
made it out this morning, and told McIlray. He says now he remembers all
about it perfectly."

"Fabian, may I shake hands with you. You are a man and a brother," says
Roger, effusively, with a sudden return of animation. "I should, indeed,
like to kiss you, but it might betray undue exhilaration. You have saved
me from worse than death. Bless me, isn't it warm?"

"Just a little sultry," says Mr. Browne. "Show me that book you were
looking at? Carter's, eh? How I love a work of that sort! I think I love
Carter himself. I daresay it is he designs those improbable vegetables
and fruits that would make their fortunes as giants at a penny show. You
see there _are_ giants in these days."

"Are there?" says Dulce. "I think there aren't."

"Well, it's just as simple," says Dicky, amiably. "Not a bit more
trouble. It is quite as easy to suppose there aren't, as to suppose
there are. _I_ don't mind. But to return to our muttons. I really do
esteem our Carter--in anticipation. It occurs to me he yet may grow
peaches as big as my head, and then what a time we'll 'ave, eh?--Eating
fruit is my forte," says Mr. Browne, with unction.

"So it is," says Dulce. "Nobody will dispute that point with you. You
never leave us any worth speaking about. McIlray says you have eaten all
the cherries, and that he can't even give us a decent dish for dinner."

"What vile