me up for all sorts of weird institutions,
I think, before I was born--my sugar broker almost fell at my feet and
worshipped me. Although I told him that the premises were overrun with
Bishops and that we had laid down all kinds of episcopicide to no avail,
he refused to be disillusioned. I told him that on the occasion of my
last visit to the Megatherium--Thackeray, I explained--a Royal
Academician, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, reading desolate
"The Hibbert Journal" in the smoking-room, embraced me as fondly as the
austerity of the place permitted and related a non-drawing-room story
which was current at my preparatory school--and that in the library I
ran into an equally desolate, though even less familiar Archdeacon, who
seized me, like the Ancient Mariner, and never let me go until he had
impressed upon my mind the name and address of the only man in London
who could cut clerical gaiters. But the simple child of sugar would have
his way. There was but one Valhalla in London, and it was built by
Decimus Burton.

After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half hour or so, and
then Barbara and I took our leave. As we were motoring home--we live
some thirty miles out of London--we discussed the dinner party,
according to the way of married folks, home-bound after a feast, and I
mentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass. Why
should his face have been so haggard when he had everything to make him
happy?

"He was thinking of Mr. Jornicroft's previous insulting behaviour."

"How do you know?"

"He told me," said Barbara.

"I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive," said I.

"It strikes me, my dear," replied Barbara, taking my hand, "that you are
an old ignoramus."

And this from a woman who actively glories in not knowing how many "r's"
there are in "harassed."

She nestled up to me. "We're not going abroad in August, are we?"

"What?" I cried, "leave the English country during the only part of the
year that is not 'deformed with dripping rains or withered by a frost'?
Certainly not."

"But we did last year, and the year before."

"Pure accident. The year before, Susan was recovering from the measles
and you had some pretty frocks which you thought would look lovely at
Dinard. And last year you also had some frocks and insisted that
Houlgate was the only place where Susan could avoid being stricken down
by scarlet-fever."

"Anyhow," said my wife, "we're not going a