The four of us huddled together, helpless with mirth, while Berry, calling upon Sirius, clung desperately to the bookcase, and Nobby, clearly interpreting our merriment as applause, stood immediately below his victim, panting a little with excitement and wagging his tail tentatively.

“After all,” said my brother-in-law, “what is Death?  A b-b-bagatelle.  Excelsior.  Of course, I ought to have a banner, really.  Just to wave as I fall.  Two and a half guineas these trousers cost.  Think of the dogs you could get for that.  Excelsior.  Seriously, I should get him a set of false teeth and keep them locked up.  It’ll save in the end.  Yes, I know it’s side-splitting.  I’m only sorry I haven’t got a tail.  Then I could hang from the electric light.  As it is, what about calling off the dog?  Not that I’m not comfortable.  And the air up here’s lovely.  But——­”

With an effort I pulled myself together and laid a hand on Jill’s shoulder.

“Here,” I said, nodding in Berry’s direction, “here we have the Flat-footed Baboon, an animal of diverting but vulgar habits.  That between its eyes is its nose.  The only other known specimen is at Dartmoor.”

“D’you mind not talking?” said Berry.  “I’m just thinking out your death.  They say pressing is very painful.  Or would you rather call off the mammal?”

I picked up Nobby and put him under my arm.

“You know, you’re a wicked dog,” said I.

For a moment his bright brown eyes met mine.  Then with a sudden movement he put up a cold black nose and licked my face....

Before we retired that night, Berry had admitted that Nobby had his points, Nobby had accepted from Berry a caviare sandwich, and I had handed my brother-in-law a cheque for two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence.

* * * * *

It had been arranged that we should spend Christmas with the St. Martins in Wiltshire, and we were to make the journey on the twenty-third.  High festival was to be held at Red Abbey, a fine old place with mullioned windows and a great panelled hall that smacked of revelry and Christmas cheer even in summertime.  On Christmas Eve there was to be a dance, on Boxing Day a tenants’ ball, and on Christmas Day itself the house-party of twenty souls was to assemble for dinner correctly attired after the manner of children of tender years.

So far as clothes could do it, the spirit of childhood was to be recaptured that night.  Guests had been put upon their honour to eschew evasion.  Kilts and sailor suits had been forbidden, as was any suit or frock which was not the monopoly of juveniles.  Hair was to be worn down, monocles and jewellery were banned.  The trappings of Dignity were to be rigidly put off, and Innocence courted with appropriate mockery.  The composition of the house-party, which had been carefully chosen, promised an entertainment of more than ordinary interest.

On all three evenings dance music was to be discoursed by a famous coloured band, whose services had long ago been retained for the occasion.