custom, and old
creed, Old right and wrong there bled to death; The frozen air received
their breath, A little smoke that died away; And round about them where
they lay The snow bloomed roses. Blood was there A red gay flower and
only fair. Sing Holiday! Beneath the Tree Of Innocence and Liberty,
Paper Nose and Red Cockade Dance within the magic shade That makes them
drunken, merry, and strong To laugh and sing their ferial song: 'Free,
free...!' But Echo answers Faintly to the laughing dancers, 'Free'--and
faintly laughs, and still, Within the hollows of the hill, Faintlier
laughs and whispers, 'Free,' Fadingly, diminishingly: 'Free,' and
laughter faints away... Sing Holiday! Sing Holiday!"

He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his pocket. The thing had
its merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But how unpleasant the crowd
smelt! He lit a cigarette. The smell of cows was preferable. He passed
through the gate in the park wall into the garden. The swimming-pool was
a centre of noise and activity.

"Second Heat in the Young Ladies' Championship." It was the polite
voice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek, seal-like figures in black
bathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey bowler hat, smooth, round, and
motionless in the midst of a moving sea, was an island of aristocratic
calm.

Holding his tortoise-shell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two in front of
his eyes, he read out names from a list.

"Miss Dolly Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell..."

Five young persons ranged themselves on the brink. From their seats of
honour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn and Mr. Callamay
looked on with eager interest.

Henry Wimbush raised his hand. There was an expectant silence. "When I
say 'Go,' go. Go!" he said. There was an almost simultaneous splash.

Denis pushed his way through the spectators. Somebody plucked him by the
sleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs. Budge.

"Delighted to see you again, Mr. Stone," she said in her rich, husky
voice. She panted a little as she spoke, like a short-winded lap-dog.
It was Mrs. Budge who, having read in the "Daily Mirror" that the
Government needed peach stones--what they needed them for she never
knew--had made the collection of peach stones her peculiar "bit" of war
work. She had thirty-six peach trees in her walled garden, as well as
four hot-houses in which trees could be forced, so that she was able
to eat peaches practically the whole year round. In 19