h bottle, the woolly rabbit
that squeaks when you hold it in your mouth; they all vanished as
inexplicably as the lady, but I dared not tell him my suspicions, for he
suspected also and his gentle heart would have mourned had I confirmed
his fears.

The dame in the temple of toys which we frequent thinks I want them
for a little boy and calls him "the precious" and "the lamb," the while
Porthos is standing gravely by my side. She is a motherly soul, but
over-talkative.

"And how is the dear lamb to-day?" she begins, beaming.

"Well, ma'am, well," I say, keeping tight grip of his collar.

"This blighty weather is not affecting his darling appetite?"

"No, ma'am, not at all." (She would be considerably surprised if
informed that he dined to-day on a sheepshead, a loaf, and three
cabbages, and is suspected of a leg of mutton.)

"I hope he loves his toys?"

"He carries them about with him everywhere, ma'am." (Has the one we
bought yesterday with him now, though you might not think it to look at
him.)

"What do you say to a box of tools this time?"

"I think not, ma'am."

"Is the deary fond of digging?"

"Very partial to digging." (We shall find the leg of mutton some day.)

"Then perhaps a weeny spade and a pail?"

She got me to buy a model of Canterbury Cathedral once, she was so
insistent, and Porthos gave me his mind about it when we got home. He
detests the kindergarten system, and as she is absurdly prejudiced in
its favour we have had to try other shops. We went to the Lowther Arcade
for the rocking-horse. Dear Lowther Arcade! Ofttimes have we wandered
agape among thy enchanted palaces, Porthos and I, David and I, David and
Porthos and I. I have heard that thou art vulgar, but I cannot see how,
unless it be that tattered children haunt thy portals, those awful yet
smiling entrances to so much joy. To the Arcade there are two entrances,
and with much to be sung in laudation of that which opens from the
Strand I yet on the whole prefer the other as the more truly romantic,
because it is there the tattered ones congregate, waiting to see the
Davids emerge with the magic lamp. We have always a penny for them,
and I have known them, before entering the Arcade with it, retire (but
whither?) to wash; surely the prettiest of all the compliments that are
paid to the home of toys.

And now, O Arcade, so much fairer than thy West End brother, we are told
that thou art doomed, anon to be turned into an eating-ho