All this being settled, our host was admitted into his smoking-room again.

“You begin with me,” I said, and I was promptly asked, “How many blue beans make five?” When I had made a suitable answer into which “it’s” came without much difficulty, our host turned to Herbert.  Herbert’s face had already assumed a look of strained expectancy.

“Well, Herbert, what do you think of Lloyd George?”

“Yes,” said Herbert.  “Yes—­er—­yes.”  He wiped the perspiration from his brow.  “He—­er—­that is to say—­er—­Lloyd George, yes.”

“Is that the answer?” said our host, rather surprised.

Herbert explained hastily that he hadn’t really begun yet, and with the aid of an anecdote about a cousin of his who had met Winston Churchill at Dieppe once, he managed to get “the” in several times before blowing his nose vigorously and announcing that he had finished.

“I believe he’s playing a different game,” murmured Celia to Mrs. Peter.

The next three words were disposed of easily enough, a lucky question to Peter about the weather giving him an opportunity to refer to his straw hat.  It was now Celia’s turn for “breaks.”

“Nervous?” I asked her.

“All of a twitter,” she said.

“Well, Celia,” said our host, “how long are you going to stay with us?”

“Oh, a long time yet,” said Celia confidently.

“Till Wednesday, anyhow,” I interrupted, thinking it a good opportunity to clinch the matter.

“We generally stay,” explained Celia, “until our host breaks it to us that he can’t stick us any longer.”

“Not that that often happens,” I added.

“Look here, which of you is answering the question?”

“I am,” said Celia firmly.

“Well, have you answered it yet?”

“To tell the truth I’ve quite forgotten the word that—­Oh, I remember now.  Yes,” she went on very distinctly and slowly, “I hope to remain under your roof until next Wednesday morn.  Whew!” and she fanned herself with her handkerchief.

Mrs. Herbert repeated her husband’s triumph with “the,” and then it was my turn again for these horrible camels.  My only hope was that our host would ask me if I had been to the Zoo lately, but I didn’t see why he should.  He didn’t.

“Would it surprise you to hear,” he asked, “that the President of Czecho-Slovakia has a very long beard?”

“If it had only been ‘goats,’” I murmured to myself.  Aloud I said, “What?” in the hope of gaining a little more time.

He repeated his question.

“No,” I said slowly, “no, it wouldn’t,” and I telegraphed an appeal to Celia for help.  She nodded back at me.

“Have you finished?” asked our host.

“Good Lord, no, I shall be half an hour yet.  The fact is you’ve asked the wrong question.  You see, I’ve got to get in ‘moss.’”

“I thought it was ‘camels,’” said Celia carelessly.