PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 146
25 MARCH 1914.
CHARIVARIA.
The attention of the American Ambassador has been called to the danger of after-dinner speaking. There is many a true word said in digestion—and the truth is apt to hurt sensitive nations.
Art circles continue to seethe with indignation over the National Gallery outrage. Even the Post-Impressionists have now no sympathy with the Suffragettes, for they realise that, while in this instance it was only a Velasquez which was injured, next time it might be a sublime Bomberg or a transcendent Wyndham Lewis.
Sir Hiram Maxim has addressed an open letter to Mrs. Pankhurst containing a number of questions, and asking for certain definite information before he joins her party. Nothing, we believe, would please that party better than to be able to add a Maxim to its armament.
A number of Liverpool women, many of whom are Suffragettes, have formed a Women's Church. A feature of this Church will no doubt be the institution of frequent Fasts with a view to training the worshippers to cope with the difficulties of every-day life.
A fire brigade composed entirely of girl students successfully fought a fire last week at Wellesley College, a famous American educational institution. A strongly-worded protest against their unwomanly conduct has, we understand, been sent from the headquarters of the W.S.P.U.
After much wordy warfare between our contemporary's readers, the proprietors of The Saturday Westminster Gazette have now decided definitely that it shall be printed on white paper, on the ground that this is better for the eyesight, and the White-and-See party has thus gained a notable victory over the Green-and-Bear-It party.
Mr. Roy Horniman has become chairman of the Committee for the Prevention of Cruelty to Stage Animals. There is good work to be done here. We have always understood that the hind-legs of the Pantomime dragon suffer terribly while on the stage, owing to the closeness of the atmosphere.
Rumours reach us of trouble between The Daily Mail and its enterprising young protége, The Times. It is all on account of the former possibly being compelled to modify its announcement, "Daily net sale six times as large as that of any penny London morning journal," and charges of ingratitude are flying about.
From the North-West Frontier of India comes the news that the station-master has been kidnapped from Shahkat station by raiders. It is now proposed that, with a view to preventing the recurrence of such a theft, every station-master shall in future wear a collar with a bell attached to it which would give the alarm.
At a dinner to Mr. Ramsay Macdonald, the chairman referred to "the two wings of the Labour movement." Two wings, unfortunately, do not make an angel.
Some pigeons, it is stated, have built their nests and are rearing their young at the very point of the Tower Bridge bascules. The S.P.C.A., always alert, is presumably moving in the matter with a view to the bridge being closed until the little family is out in the world.
The expression, "The Theatre of War," gets more apt every day. During the Balkan War the Servians and Montenegrins used a rattle to imitate machine-gun fire, and a machine has now been devised for imitating the noise of an aeroplane engine, with the object of alarming hostile troops.
"We like the stories of men who joked on their death-beds," says The Times in a leader. Now that The Times has signified its approval we shall never be surprised to see this become Society's latest hobby.
The Duke of Devonshire has sold a portion of his library, consisting of early editions of Shakspeare and Chaucer, to an American dealer for £200,000. His Grace is said to have calculated that, if he replaced these books by the nice handy little editions which are now to be obtained for sixpence and a shilling a-piece, the transaction would mean a considerable profit for him.
A skeleton, which is computed to be 150,000 years old, has been discovered by a German professor. From the position in which it was found it is conjectured that the man was drowned, and the police will no doubt take the matter up, and the relatives will, if possible, be communicated with.
In an age when cheapness seems to be most persons' ideal, it is refreshing to note that there has been placed on the market a musical instrument which frankly calls itself the Dea Piano.
SONG.
In the sunshine went the bee
Busily, O busily;
White birds flashed upon the sea,
White cliffs mounted dizzily;
There a shepherd tuned his reed
For the maiden of his need:
"Shepherdess," he piped, "give heed!"
Long ago in Sicily.
"As the sky your eyes are blue,"
He continued wittily
(When he said this it was new—
Just come south from Italy);
And she let her lids downfall
(This was then original)
At the marvel of it all—
Prettily, O prettily.
So the milch-goats went astray—
That's the short and long of it;
While they laughed the hours away—
That's the right and wrong of it;
Till the white wings ceased to strive,
Till the brown bee sought the hive;
"Wonderful!" they said—and I've
Made a silly song of it.
JOBSON'S.
"Is it a bad one?" I said.
"It's just one of my headaches," said the lady of the house.
"But some of your headaches," I said, "are different from others. Some——"
"This," she said, "is one of the different ones."
"Is it like those you have when Mrs. Martlet comes to collect on behalf of the Chimney-Sweeps' Aid Society? I mean, will it yield to treatment in about an hour?"
"No," she groaned; "it's even worse than those. It's all over my head."
"Oh, but if that's the sort I'm all sympathy. Only tell me what I can do. Are cold compresses any good? Or the doctor? It might be measles, you know. All the best people have measles now. Real measles, I mean; not the German sort. Shall I start isolating you? They tell me I'm a first-class isolater."
"No," she said, "don't do that. It sounds so heartless."
"Well," I said, "if there's anything else in reason I'm your man."
"I want you," she said, "to go to London."
"To London?" I said. "Of course I'll go. It's the very place I'm wanting to go to. In fact, I was going there anyhow; only when you said you'd got a headache I thought I'd stay here and help to cool your brow."
"But why," she murmured, "were you going to London anyhow?"
"Because," I said, "I've bought a season ticket. When the ticket-collector comes round I shan't fumble in all my pockets, or scrabble on the floor, or get red and nervous. I shall just sit tight without looking at him and whisper 'Season' from behind my penny Times. I've always wanted to be like that, and now I am it."
"But will you get your money's worth out of it?"
"Yes," I said, "if I have to travel up and down three times a day to do it."
"And will you be an angel?" she said.
"I am. My wings are fully grown."
"Then I want you to fly for me to Jobson's."
"To Jobson's?" I said in a voice of vague alarm.
"Yes, Jobson's. The great Stores in the Bothwell Road."
"But I shall get lost," I said. "I haven't got a head for Stores. Perhaps if I sew my address into the back of my waistcoat I might venture, but it's an awful undertaking. And how does one dress for Stores?"
"Oh, anyhow," she said. "And when you get there I want you to order some stockings for the girls—about four pairs each—and three warm undervests for John."
"But what about the size?" I said.
"You won't have any difficulty. Mention their ages, or take up a few old sample stockings and an undervest with you. They won't be heavy to carry. Now leave me to my headache."
Not long afterwards I was in London, having travelled up gently but firmly as a season-ticket holder. With a beating heart I made my way to the imposing block of buildings known as Jobson's and entered its portals. As I did so I realised in a flash of shame that I had left my parcel of samples in the train. I had known it would be so. I am not accustomed to carry brown paper parcels in railway carriages, and of course I had forgotten it. As I failed afterwards to get it back I have the satisfaction of knowing that someone has been badly disappointed. To carry off a parcel and then to find that it contains three stockings, all with holes in the toes and knees, and one small undervest buttonless and torn into strips up the back, must be a bitter blow.
Jobson's, when I entered it, was a scene of great animation. Crowds of customers, nearly all women, were standing about or moving purposefully in various directions. Brisk and harassed attendants, male and female, were rushing hither and thither. Confusion and purchase reigned supreme. Keeping a tight hold on myself I wandered on until, by some mistake, I found myself in the Ladies' Dress department.
"Yes, Sir?" said one of the girls in a tone of surprised interrogation.
"Can I order a dress?" I said nervously. "A lady's dress, you know. For my wife," I added hastily, for a look of cold disapproval had shown itself on the attendant's face. "She has a bad headache or she would have come herself. Or is there an Ironmongery department?"
"Second floor. You can go in the lift," said the girl.
The Ironmongery department was attractive beyond description. Fire-irons glittered, fenders gleamed, and there was a lawn-mower which gaped so pathetically that I was all but forced to buy it.
"Is anyone looking after you, Sir?" said a gentleman with the air and manners of a diplomatist.
"No," I said; "I want a stocking or two."
"Hosiery department on the ground floor. You can go in the lift;" and he too left me.
Down I went again, plunged head-first through the Ladies' Dress department, and came to an anchor amongst the pipes, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco. Here I bought two pipes, a cigar-cutter, and five match-stands of a very novel design. Having thus paid my footing, I addressed the salesman.
"Take me," I said, "to the Hosiery department."
"Straight on, Sir," he said, "and turn to the right before you get to the musical instruments."
"No, no," I said, "that won't do. I have been trying to get there all day by myself and have failed. I am so very musical. If I go alone I shall be drawn in among the flutes and harmoniums. Conduct me to the hosiery or I shall return the match-stands."
Moved by my appeal he conducted me, and at last reached my haven and made my purchases. When I got home, the headache was gone, and in its place there was a critical spirit which prophesied that all the stockings would certainly be of the wrong size and quality, while the undervests would be equally useless. About the pipes, cigar-cutter and the match-stands I preferred to say nothing at all.
On the whole the visit to Jobson's was a failure. R. C. L.
THE BEST POLICY.
(Addressed to either pioneer of journalistic insurance.)
Great Paper (with the booster circulation),
I much admire your latest enterprise;
I positively cheer with acclamation
When, daily, lines like these arrest my eyes:
"Another of our Readers Breaks His Neck;
Photo of Relatives Receiving Cheque."
Yes, yes, I know you meet more claims and vaster
Than does your noisy rival on the press;
Methinks the Furies, plotters of disaster,
Intend your scheme to be the true success;
And, of the pair, 'tis you appear to be
The surer passport to eternity.
So, sighing not for realms that are infernal,
I'll buy the meaner sheet, the over-matched;
Or, better still, some nice old-fashioned journal
To which no startling terror is attached;
Let others read you, heroes who can brave
The instant peril of a bloody grave!
LIGHTENING THE DARKNESS.
The Lord Mayor has opened a fund to assist the National Institute for the Blind in its endeavour to increase and cheapen the supply of Braille literature.
IN THE BRAVE 3D. DAYS.
In these times of change and stress I have been remembering with much relief a curious character who haunted the British Museum Reading Room a quarter of a century ago. He cannot be there still, for he was elderly then: a military-looking man with a very upright, almost corsetted, form, a reddish face and a gingery moustache that in its prime might have graced a major. His eye however, was not martial, but blue and mild, watery and wandering, its quest being, I fancy, a convivial acquaintance with enough money and generosity for two instalments of refreshment. His hair, which was scanty, was carefully brushed, and parted at the back even to his collar, and upon it was perched at a slight angle a tall hat ironed beyond endurance. His erect body was encased in a tightly-buttoned frock-coat so shiny that it glistened, and as for his boots, no really softhearted observer could bear to look twice at them, so inadequate were they to our city of rain.
Such was this jaunty thread-bare scholar; but what was his special branch of learning I never discovered, nor did he make the discovery easy, for, though he had a desk, it seldom had books upon it, and he was rarely there: drifting instead about the vast room, exchanging a few words with this or that crony, and too often leaving it with them on brief expeditions across the road. He may merely have been a sermon-copyist, busy only towards Sunday. He may have been a loafer pure and simple. I say I don't know; but he was a landmark of the place, idiosyncratic enough to be stamped indelibly on at any rate one retina.
One other touch is needed to complete his appearance. He always wore gloves, which my memory inclines me to believe had once been pale yellow, and he was always accompanied by a copy of The Times. This, however, he did not carry in his hand, but he tucked it between the first and second buttons of his frock-coat, so folded that the title was visible, thus guaranteeing to the world that he was one who went to the fountain-head for his politics and foreign information. By this sign-mark, in spite of the wear and tear which were only too visible in his clothes, he became a man apart, for few regular readers among us could afford such an organ, even if we were attracted by anything so august and severe. But naturally we all thought the more of him for his journal. The suggestion of poverty became merely eccentricity.
And then one day, standing by him closely, I made the humiliating discovery—as humiliating to me as to him—that the date of the protruding copy of The Times was a year or so past, and, looking more narrowly at the paper itself, I realised that it had been folded thus for months and months and months ...
Innocent deception! I wish I had never detected it, and I am glad to think that the gallant old gentleman never knew that it was pierced. But how comforting it is to know that he was well in his grave before the great revolution of this month set in, to reduce his proof of gentility to a penny, and thus reducing it, to render it invalid evermore!
LOYALTY.
Commercial Threat.
"General Bakery and Confectionery. We carry a large stock in both lines. Get the Richardson Bread habit. It will tickle you."
Daily News (Port Arthur, Canada.)
"Italian war medals.
(From Our Own Correspondent).
War vessels were distributed to the troops to-day in the Piazza Pledisato."
Standard of Buenos Aires.
Much better to have stuck to the first idea and given them medals.
The Oxford Ducks.
"Going up a good water they rowed a minute at 32, but otherwise were only waddling."—Yorkshire Evening Post.
POPULAR MISCONCEPTIONS.
["Lord Northcliffe rarely sees and never reads a letter, being mainly nowadays engaged in golf and travel."—Daily Mail.]
Nothing is more curious in the journalistic world than the widespread illusion which prevails as to the nature of Mr. Larvin's editorial activities. The common view is that he writes nineteen columns in every issue of the Sunday Swerver, besides contributing a leading article, seven leaderettes, three reviews and a "special" political manifesto to each number of the Pale Mail Gazette. As a matter of fact nothing could be wider of the mark. Mr. Larvin for many years has taken a detached and dispassionate view of politics, devoting the greater part of his time to collecting Egyptian papyri, and playing squash racquets, at which he is remarkably proficient. Although he occasionally inspires a paragraph in one or other of the papers mentioned, he hardly ever comes to either office, and is not even known by sight to the office boys.
Another instance of the wide discrepancy between fact and popular belief is furnished by the case of Mr. Murbidge, the manager of Garrod's Stores. Mr. Murbidge is commonly supposed to be an omniscient and ubiquitous administrator, who holds all the strings of Garrod's in his hands, and to whom all questions are referred for immediate decision. No one is more amused at this extraordinary hallucination than Mr. Murbidge himself. Nowadays he is almost entirely occupied in tarpon fishing, running a plovers' egg farm on Romney Marsh, and playing the pianola.
Sir James Lignum's appearances at Queen's Hall have led to a host of misconceptions as to his real interests and accomplishments. It is true that he wields the bâton on those occasions, but he never sees the orchestra at any other time or hears a note of music, being entirely occupied with philately and teaching a boys' club boxing in the East-end. The band are absolutely independent of his control, while acquiescing in his presence as a valuable spectacular asset, owing to the extreme whiteness of his hands, the exquisite cut of his frock-coat, and the capillary attraction exerted on the audience by his glossy and luxuriant chevelure.
We understand that Mr. Larry Cawdor is deeply incensed by the widespread prevalence of the erroneous impression that he still appears in the music-halls. For many years he has been replaced by an imitator who bears the same name and has modelled himself, both vocally and histrionically, on his illustrious namesake. But the real Larry Cawdor never sets foot inside a music-hall nowadays, being mainly engaged on an exhaustive commentary on the Talmud and devoting his scanty leisure to the collection of entomological specimens for his private museum.
It is strange that so many people believe that the finances of the country are still controlled by Mr. Lloyd George. Nominally of course he is still Chancellor of the Exchequer, but he never goes near the Treasury, never reads a State Paper or troubles his head with facts or figures. When he is not inspiring our Foreign Policy—for which Sir Edward Grey so unfairly gains the credit—he is generally to be found playing piquet with Mr. T. P. O'Connor, or four-ball foursomes with Mr. Masterman, Mr. Devlin and the Baron de Forest.
Some misguided people have formed the odd habit of thinking of Sir Treebohm Herr as an actor. But how far from the truth this is will be ascertained in a moment when we say that he devotes himself almost wholly to studying his brother's facetious drawings and attempting to improve on them. Any histrionic reputation that he may have made has been the work of understudies while the principal was busy with his quasi-comic pencil.
Mr. Seldom Gorfridge, the great American shopkeeper whose advertisements are so highly esteemed by the London Press, is popularly believed to be interested in his business. This is, of course, a foolish misconception. Mr. Gorfridge has but one consuming passion and that is pigeon flying. Week in and week out he is absorbed by this pursuit at his magnificent home in Cornwall, and all that he knows of Oxford Street and millinery he learns from the evening papers.
FOOD--NOT MERELY FOR THOUGHT.
["Brick tea in Mongolia not only acts as food, but is used as currency and generally as a means of exchange. It is a very ancient custom, and house rent in Urga is often computed on so many bricks of tea.">[
From "With the Russians in Mongolia."
The introduction of a food currency on more extensive lines into this country might produce such results as the following:—
Try the new "Var-ray" Mashie.
Price One Sausage.
White's Cold Complexion Cream.
Price 12 Strawberries.
Companion Wanted.—Apply,
stating Celery required, E. A. T. Green,
Vegetarian Mansions, S.W.
Irish Linen Co., Och, Ireland.
Write to-day for Catalogue,
enclosing pat of butter to cover postage.
Gents' Toilet Saloon,, Oxford St., W.
Shave ... One Cut from the Joint.
Hair-cut, Shampoo, etc. One Sheep's Head.
Why Pay More?
The Life of Lloyd George.
By Bertie Du Porke.
In side boards, price One Welsh Rarebit.
In half-calf, price One Pound (of Veal).
Sheepshanks & Co.,
Gents' Outfitters.
Gents' ready-to-wear Cycling and Golf Knickers.
Usual price, Two Legs of Lamb. Sale price, Two Legs of Mutton.
Cycling Hose, to clear—Two Calves Foot Jellies per pair.
Gents' White Spats, clearance price—One Bag of Nuts.
Sheepshanks & Co., Poultry, E.C.
Lists sent Paste Free.
Clerk Wanted.—The successful applicant would be enabled to earn his bread and butter daily.—Apply,
T. Potter & Co., E.C.
Peckstein Hall.
To-morrow at Three.
Vocalist ... Miss Lottie Teathe. At the Mouth Organ. M. Grubbe.
Prices:— Boxes, Three Gross Sardines. Body, One Pig's Heart.
THE CHIMES AND THE CHUBE.
As when a solemn bell
Sounds from a little spire
The smock-frocked villagers to tell
"'Tis church time," and they heed the summons well,
Gaffer, and Jarge and Kate, and tiny Nell,
And last of all comes Squire—
So have I heard afar
And pondered on my crimes,
Reader of many a flashy par.
While travelling in the subterranean car,
A voice that murmured, "What a fool you are
Not to take in The Chimes!"
I said, "It costs three d.,"
But lied about the cause;
I feared the toils of destiny,
I felt those stately columns close on me,
I shuddered as I rattled like a pea
Citywards without pause.
Tuppence! The fearful sound
Pealed like an organ crash;
Once more the mesh was drawing round,
But still I cried, "Economy!" and drowned
The still small voice, and in the Underground
Flaunted The Daily Flash.
Short shrift for those that err!
Jove has rebuked my sin:
Now, helpless and without demur,
You shall behold me where the tube-lifts purr
Pale captive to the penny Thunderer
With supplements heaved in.
Only one thing I cry,
With tears and laughter mixed,
That those who speed or far or nigh
The swift-winged wains of the Electric Ry.,
And furnish them with little thongs whereby
The passengers are fixed.
Shall heed the altered price,
Shall change with changing times,
And run some trains more slow than mice,
Stopping between each station once or twice,
Fitted with lecterns of a fair device
To help me read my Chimes.
EVOE.
"THE ORGANIZER, MARCH, 1914.
Trouble always follows misunderstanding.
The worst kind of trouble comes from failure to realize the extent of one's capacity.
Learn your real value.
Price Twopence."
Even this doesn't encourage us.
ORANGES AND LEMONS.
III.—settling down.
The villa was high up on the hill, having (as Simpson was to point out several times later) Mentone on its left hand and Monte Carlo on its right. A long winding path led up through its garden of olives to the front door, and through the mimosa trees which flanked this door we could see already a flutter of white aprons. The staff was on the loggia waiting to greet us.
We halted a moment out of sight of the ladies above and considered ourselves. It came to us with a sudden shock that we were a very large party.
"I suppose," said Archie to Simpson, "they do expect all of us and not only you? You told them that about half London was coming?"
"We're only six," said Myra, "because I've just counted again, but we seem about twenty."
"It's quite all right," said Simpson cheerfully. "I said we'd be six."
"But six in a letter is much smaller than six of us like this; and when they see our luggage——"
"Let's go back," I suggested, suddenly nervous. To be five guests of the guest of a man you have never met is delicate work.
At this critical moment Archie assumed command. He is a Captain in the Yeomanry and has tackled bigger jobs than this in his time.
"We must get ourselves into proper order," he said. "Simpson, the villa has been lent to you; you must go first. Dahlia and I come next. When we arrive you will introduce us as your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mannering. Then turning to Myra you say, 'Mr. Mannering's sister; and this,' you add, 'is her husband.' Then—er—Thomas——"
"It will be difficult to account for Thomas," I said.
"Thomas comes at the end. He hangs back a little at first; and then if he sees that there is going to be any awkwardness about him, he can pretend he's come on the wrong night, and apologise and go home again."
"If Thomas goes, I go," said Myra dramatically.
"I have another idea," I said. "Thomas hides here for a bit. We introduce ourselves and settle in, and have lunch; and after lunch we take a stroll in the garden, and to our great surprise discover Thomas. 'Thomas,' we say, 'you here? Dear old chap, we thought you were in England. How splendid! Where are you staying? Oh, but you must stop with us; we can easily have a bed put up for you in the garage.' And then——"
"Not after lunch," said Thomas; "before lunch."
"Don't all be so silly," smiled Dahlia. "They'll wonder what has happened to us if we wait any longer. Besides, the men will be here with the luggage directly. Come along."
"Samuel," said Archie, "forward."
In our new formation we marched up, Simpson excited and rehearsing to himself the words of introduction, we others outwardly calm. At a range of ten yards he opened fire. "How do you do?" he beamed. "Here we all are! Isn't it a lovely——"
The cook-housekeeper, majestic but kindly, came forward with outstretched hand and welcomed him volubly—in French. The other three ladies added their French to hers. There was only one English body on the loggia. It belonged to a bull-dog. The bull-dog barked loudly at Simpson in English.
There was no "Cook's homme" to save Simpson this time. But he rose to the occasion nobly. The scent of the mimosa inspired him.
"Merci," he said, "Merci. Oui, n'est ce pas? Delightful. Er—these are—ces sont mes amis. Er—Dahlia, come along—er, Monsieur et Madame Mannering—er—Myra, la soeur de Monsieur—- er—where are you, old chap?—le mari de la soeur de Monsieur. Er—Thomas—er——" (he was carried away by memories of his schoolboy French), "le frère du jardinier—er——" He wheeled round and saw me; introduced me again; introduced Myra as my wife, Archie as her brother, and Dahlia as Archie's wife; and then with a sudden inspiration presented Thomas grandly as "le beau-père du petit fils de mes amis Monsieur et Madame Mannering." Thomas seemed more assured of his place as Peter's godfather than as the brother of the gardener.
There were four ladies; we shook hands with all of them. It took us a long time, and I doubt if we got it all in even so, for twice I found myself shaking hands with Simpson. But these may have been additional ones thrown in. It was over at last, and we followed the staff indoors.
And then we had another surprise. It was broken to us by Dahlia, who, at Simpson's urgent request, took up the position of lady of the house, and forthwith received the flowing confidence of the housekeeper.
"Two of us have to sleep outside," she said.
"Where?" we all asked blankly.
We went on to the loggia again, and she pointed to a little house almost hidden by olive-trees in a corner of the garden below us.
"Oh, well, that's all right," said Archie. "It's on the estate. Thomas, you and Simpson won't mind that a bit, will you?"
"We can't turn Samuel out of his own house," said Myra indignantly.
"We aren't turning him; he wants to go. But, of course, if you and your young man would like to live there instead——"
Myra looked at me eagerly.
"It would be rather fun," she said. "We'd have another little honeymoon all to ourselves."
"It wouldn't really be a honeymoon," I objected. "We should always be knocking up against trippers in the garden, Archies and Samuels and Thomases and what not. They'd be all over the place."
Dahlia explained the domestic arrangements. The honeymooners had their little breakfast in their own little house, and then, joined the others for the day at about ten.
"Or eleven," said Thomas.
"It would be rather lovely," said Myra thoughtfully.
"Yes," I agreed; "but have you considered that—— Come over this way a moment, where Thomas and Simpson can't hear, while I tell you some of the disadvantages."
I led her into a quiet corner and suggested a few things to her which I hoped would not occur to the other two.
Item: That if it was raining hard at night it would be beastly. Item: That if you suddenly found you'd left your pipe behind it would, be rotten. Item: That if, as was probable, there wasn't a proper bathroom in the little house, it would be sickening. Item: That if she had to walk on muddy paths in her evening shoes, it would be——
At this point Myra suddenly caught the thread of the argument. We went back to the others.
"We think," said Myra, "it would be perfectly heavenly in the little house; but——" She hesitated.
"But at the same time," I said, "we think it's up to Simpson and Thomas to be English gentlemen. Samuel, it's your honour."
There was a moment's silence.
"Come along," said Thomas to Simpson, "let's go and look at it."
After lunch, clean and well-fed and happy, we lay in deck-chairs on the loggia and looked lazily down at the Mediterranean.
"Thank you, Samuel, for bringing us," said Dahlia gently. "Your friends must be very fond of you to have lent you this lovely place."
"Not fonder than we are," said Myra, smiling at him.
A. A. M.