hing, but really I can't sing."

"Of course you can. You must. I've told them to put your name down.
Everybody has got to do something. It's for St. Dunstan's, you know,
and everyone for miles round is turning up."

I subsided, murmuring feebly.

John was gazing moodily at the fire.

"So that's that," said Cecilia cheerfully, resting her hand softly on
his shoulder. "And _you_'d better be thinking what to say to make the
jolly old farmers stump up, my dear."

John cleared his throat.

"I've--er--decided not to come to the concert, dear," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Cecilia, cooing like a covey (or
whatever it is) of doves. "Of course you're coming. I've arranged it
all."

"I think I'd rather stop at home, dear," he said; "I can--er--look
after Christopher and--er--there's a bit of work I have to finish."

"Christopher will be in bed, and your old work can wait, just as it
always has to."

"Well, you know, darling," said John, looking furtively at Margery and
me, "I'm not much use at these social affairs. I always say the wrong
thing."

"I know you do, dear," said Cecilia sweetly; "but they've all heard
you before, and nobody minds."

She paused a moment while John gulped.

"So that's settled, isn't it?" she said.

John gulped again.

* * * * *

[Illustration: WHITSUN AUCTION AT OUR BOARDING-HOUSE.

_Ruffled Veteran (whose partner has not led her suit against a
"three no-trumps"). "Not Having (realises the enormity of her
offence)_--ER--ER--PLAYED THE GAME BEFORE, PARTNER?"]

* * * * *

TO A DENTIST.

["Dry champagne is an excellent mouth-wash."--_Dr. SIM
WALLACE, at a Conference on Prevention of Diseases of the
Teeth._]

While in your dismal _salle d'attente_ I wait
And with forgotten _Punches_ idly toy,
How it will reconcile me to my fate
To muse upon the mouth-wash you employ.

Or, squirming in the plush-upholstered chair,
How shall I thrill with valour to observe
Among the implements of torture there
A magnum of the best, to brace my nerve.

Not the hooked probe nor hum of whirring file,
The fearful forceps nor the needled lance
Will wholly banish my expectant smile
That greets "the foaming grape of eastern France."

E'en in that pass whereat the boldest blench,
The "aching time" will quickly turn to bliss,
When, having borne the devastating wrench,