Miss Middleton poked the fire vigorously.

“About the lunges,” she said.

“Ten to the east, ten to the west, ten to the nor’-nor’-east, ten to-”

“Yes.  Well, I should have thought that that was just the thing to keep you young.”

“It is.  That’s the tragedy of it.  I used to be young; now I keep young.  And I used to say, ‘I’ll insure my life some day’; but now I think about doing it to-day.  When once you stop saying ‘some day’ you’re getting old, you know.”

“Some day,” said Miss Middleton, “you must tell me all about the Crimea.  Not now,” she went on quickly, “because you’re going to do something very silly in a moment, if I can think of it—­something to convince yourself that you are still quite young.”

“Yes, do let me.  I really think it would do me good.”

“Well, what can you do?”

“Can I break anything?” I asked, looking round the room.

“I really don’t think you must.  Mother’s very silly about things like that.  I’m so sorry; father and I would love it, of course.”

“Can I go into the kitchen and frighten the cook?”

Miss Middleton sighed mournfully.

“Isn’t it a shame,” she said, “that mothers object to all the really nice things?”

“Mrs Middleton is a little difficult to please.  I shall give up trying directly.  What about blacking my face and calling on the Vicar for a subscription?”

“I should laugh in church on Sunday thinking of it.  I always do.”

I lit another cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully.

“I have a brilliant idea,” I said at last.

“Something really silly?”

“Something preposterously foolish.  It seems to me just now the most idiotic thing I could possibly do.”

“Tell me!” beseeched Miss Middleton, clasping her hands.

“I shall,” I said, gurgling with laughter, “insure my life.”

IV.-THE HERALD OF SUMMER

Miss Middleton has a garden of which she is very proud.  Miss Middleton’s father says it belongs to him, and this idea is fostered to the extent that he is allowed to pay for the seeds and cuttings and things.  He is also encouraged to order the men about.  But I always think of it as Miss Middleton’s garden, particularly when the afternoons are hot and I see nothing but grimy bricks out of my window.  She knows all the flowers by name, which seems to me rather remarkable.

“I have come,” I announced, feeling that some excuse was necessary, “to see the lobretias; don’t say that they are out.  I mean, of course, do say that they are out.”

“But I don’t think we have any,” she said in surprise.  “I’ve never heard of them.  What are they like?”

“They’re just the ordinary sort of flower that people point to and say, ‘That’s a nice lobretia.’  Dash it, you’ve got a garden, you ought to know.”