Chesterminster wanted me. What should that portend?

"Tell them," I declaimed into the mouthpiece while I instinctively posed
for the camera, "that I feel greatly honoured by their invitation and in
other circumstances I should have been delighted to come forward as their
Candidate. The Parliamentary history of Chesterminster constitutes one of
the most romantic chapters in the chronicles of England; but just now I am
busy writing verses for next week's _Back Chat_, so--"

"If you will keep on talking to yourself you won't get connected,"
interrupted the voice. "You're thr-r-rough, Chesterminster."

"Are you Chelsea niner-seven-double-seven?" inquired a new voice, a little
more distant but not so haughty.

"No, nine I mean niner-double-seven-seven," I replied.

"Same thing," said the voice of Chesterminster. "Stokehampton wants you."

"Tell them--" I began, but my oratory was drowned by a rapid succession of
small explosions, and out of this unholy crepitation emerged a still small
voice which said, "Is that you, darling?" Then I suddenly remembered that
Stokehampton is Suzanne's relatives' nearest town of call.

"They want you to come tomorrow for the week-end," said Suzanne. "I lied to
them and said you were busy working, but they said you can have the library
to yourself whenever you want it, and spoke so nicely about you that I
couldn't refuse to ring you up. Besides, I want you to come, and the figs
and the mulberries are in splendid form."

Suzanne knows that my idea of Heaven is a garden full of fig-trees and
mulberry-bushes at the appropriate season of the year. But it was raining
hard, and I abominate week-ends; and Suzanne's relatives are well-meaning
folk who always want to arrange your day for you.

"No, Suzanne," I said, "emphatically, no. I can't think of a convincing
excuse at the moment, so you'd better say I'll be delighted to come. But
tomorrow morning you'll get a wire from me announcing that I'm sick of the
palsy--no, malaria, which they know I sometimes get--and that'll give you a
good ground for returning yourself tomorrow. Your three minutes is up.
Good-bye."

With the inspiration still fresh upon me I wrote out the telegram and rang
for Evangeline.

"Evangeline," I said, "I may possibly be detained in bed tomorrow morning.
In case that should happen"--she never betrayed even a flicker of the eye,
although she could, an she would, tell Suzanne some damning tales of late
rising during he