"Oo-o-o-oh," said Miss Middleton happily to herself.

"Last Monday, about three o'clock in the afternoon, I—No, I can't tell you this. It's too awful."

"Is it very bad?" said Miss Middleton wistfully.

"Very. I don't think you—Oh, well, if you must have it, here it is. Last Monday I suddenly found myself reading carefully and with every sign of interest a little pamphlet on—LIFE INSURANCE!"

Miss Middleton looked at me quickly, smiled suddenly, and then became very grave.

"I appeared," I went on impressively, "to be thinking of insuring my life."

"Have you done it?"

"No, certainly not. I drew back in time. But it was a warning—it was the writing on the wall."

"Tell me some more," said Miss Middleton, after she had allowed this to sink in.

"Well, that was Monday afternoon. I told myself that in the afternoon one wasn't quite responsible, that sometimes one was only half awake. But on Tuesday morning I was horrified to discover myself—before breakfast—DOING DUMB-BELLS!"

"The smelling-salts—quick!" said Miss Middleton, as she closed her eyes.

"Doing dumb-bells. Ten lunges to the east, ten lunges to the west, ten lunges—"

"Were you reducing your figure?"

"I don't know what I was doing. But there I found myself on the cold oil-cloth, lunging away—lunging and lunging and—" I stopped and gazed into the fire again.

"Is that all you have to tell me?" said Miss Middleton.

"That's the worst. But there have been other little symptoms—little warning notes which all mean the same thing. Yesterday I went into the bank, to get some money. As I began to fill in the cheque Conscience whispered to me, 'That's the third five pounds you've had out this week.'"

"Well, of all the impertinence—What did you do?"

"Made it ten pounds, of course. But there you are; you see what's happening. This morning I answered a letter by return of post. And did you notice what occurred only just now at tea?"

"Of course I did," said Miss Middleton indignantly. "You ate all the muffins."

"No, I don't mean that at all. What I mean is that I only had three lumps of sugar in each cup. I actually stopped you when you were putting the fourth lump in. Oh yes," I said bitterly, "I am getting on."

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."

"I am afraid," smiled Miss Middleton, "that there isn't such a flower—not yet. Perhaps somebody will invent it now they've got the name."

"Then I suppose I must go back to London," I said, getting up. "Bother."

"Stay and inspect the meter," pleaded Miss Middleton. "Or ask father for a subscription for the band. Surely you can think of SOME excuse for being here."

"I will stay," I said, sitting down again, "and talk to you. Between ourselves, it is one of the reasons why I came. I thought you might like to hear all the latest news. Er—we've started strawberries in London."

Miss Middleton sighed and shook her head.

"But not here," she said.

"I was afraid not, but I thought I'd remind you in case. Well, after all, what ARE strawberries? Let's talk about something else. Do you know that this is going to be the greatest season of history? I've got a free pass to the Earl's Court Exhibition, so I shall be right in the thick of it."

"Oh, I thought last season was the great one."

"It was spoilt by the Coronation, the papers say. You remember how busy we were at the Abbey; we hadn't time for anything else."

"What else do the papers say? I seem to have missed them lately. I've had a thousand things to do."

"Well, the Sardine Defence League has just been formed. I think of putting up for it. I suppose you have to swear to do one kind action to a sardine everyday. Let's both join, and then we shall probably get a lot of invitations."

"Do they have a tent at the Eton and Harrow match?" asked Miss Middleton anxiously.

"I will inquire. I wonder if there is a Vice-Presidency vacant. I should think a Vice-President of the Sardine Defence League could go anywhere."

"V.P.S.D.L.," said Miss Middleton thoughtfully. "It would look splendid. I must remember to send you a postcard to-morrow."

Tea came, and I put my deck-chair one rung up to meet it. It is difficult in a horizontal position to drink without spilling anything, and it looks so bad to go about covered with tea.

"This is very jolly," I said. "Do you know that my view during working hours consists of two broken windows and fifty square feet of brick? It's not enough. It's not what I call a vista. On fine days I have to go outside to see whether the sun is shining."

"You oughtn't to want to look out of the window when you're working. You'll never be a Mayor."

"Well, it all makes me appreciate the country properly. I wish I knew more about gardens. Tell me all about yours. When are the raspberries ripe?"

"Not till the end of June."

"I was afraid you'd say that. May I come down and see your garden at the end of June—one day when I'm not at Earl's Court? You can give all the gardeners a holiday that day. I hate to be watched when I'm looking at flowers and things."

"Are you as fond of raspberries as all that? Why didn't I know?"

"I'm not a bit mad about them, really, but they're a symbol of Summer. On a sloshy day in November, as I grope my way through the fog, I say to myself, 'Courage, the raspberries will soon be ripe.'"

"But that means that summer is half over. The cuckoo is what I'm listening for all through November. I heard it in April this year."

I looked round to see that nobody was within earshot.

"I haven't heard it yet," I confessed. "It wasn't really so much to see the lobretias as to hear the cuckoo that I came to have tea with you. I feel just the same about it; it's the beginning of everything. And I said to myself, 'Miss Middleton may not have a first-rate show of lobretias, because possibly it is an unfavourable soil for them, or they may not fit in with the colour scheme; but she does know what is essential to a proper garden, and she'll have a cuckoo.'"

"Yes, we do ourselves very well," said Miss Middleton confidently.

"Well, I didn't like to say anything about it before, because I thought it might make you nervous, and so I've been talking of other things. But now that the secret is out, I may say that I am quite ready." I stopped and listened intently with my head on one side.

There was an appalling silence.

"I don't seem to hear it," I said at last.

"But I haven't heard it here yet," Miss Middleton protested. "It was in Hampshire. The cuckoos here are always a bit late. You see, our garden takes a little finding. It isn't so well known in—in Africa, or wherever they come from—as Hampshire."

"Yes, but when I've come down specially to hear it—"

"CUCK-OO," said Miss Middleton suddenly, and looked very innocent.

"There, that was the nightingale, but it's the cuckoo I really want to hear."

"I AM sorry about it. If you like, I'll listen to you while you tell me who you think ought to play for England. I can't make it more summery for you than that. Unless roses are any good?"

"No, don't bother," I said in some disappointment; "you've done your best. We can't all have cuckoos any more than we can all have lobretias. I must come again in August, when one of the pioneers may have struggled here. Of course in Hampshire—"

"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree.

"There!" cried Miss Middleton.

"That's much better," I said. "Now make it come from the laburnum, Lieutenant."

"I'm not doing it, really!" she said. "At least only the first time."

"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree again.

There was no doubt about it. I let my deck-chair down a rung and prepared to welcome the summer.

"Now," I said, "we're off."



EPILOGUE



You may believe this or not as you like. Personally I don't know what to think. It happened on the first day of spring (do you remember it? A wonderful day), and on the first of spring all sorts of enchantments may happen.

I was writing my weekly story: one of those things with a He and a She in it. He was Reginald, a fine figure of a man. She was Dorothy, rather a dear. I was beginning in a roundabout sort of way with the weather, and the scenery, and the birds, and how Reginald was thinking of the spring, and how his young fancy was lightly turning to thoughts of love, when suddenly—

At that moment I was called out of the room to speak to the housekeeper about something. In three minutes I was back again; and I had just dipped my pen in the ink, when there came a cough from the direction of the sofa—and there, as cool as you please, were sitting two persons entirely unknown to me....

"I beg your pardon," I said. "The housekeeper never told me. Whom have I the—what did you—"

"Thanks," said the man. "I'm Reginald."

"Are you really?" I cried. "Jove, I AM glad to see you. I was just—just thinking of you. How are you?"

"I'm sick of it," said Reginald.

"Sick of what?"

"Of being accepted by Dorothy."

I turned to the girl.

"You don't mean to say—"

"Yes; I'm Dorothy. I'm sick of it too."

"Dorothy!" I cried. "By the way, let me introduce you. Reginald, this is Dorothy. She's sick of it too."

"Thanks," said Reginald coldly. "We have met before."

"Surely not. Just let me look a moment.... No, I thought not. You don't meet till the next paragraph. If you wouldn't mind taking a seat, I shan't be a moment."

Reginald stood up.

"Look here," he said. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're just Reginald," I said; "and there's no need to stand about looking so dignified, because I only thought of you ten minutes ago, and if you're not careful I shall change your name to Harold. You're Reginald, and you're going to meet Dorothy in the next paragraph, and you'll flirt with her mildly for about two columns. And at the end, I expect—no, I am almost sure, that you will propose and be accepted."

"Never," said Reginald angrily.

"That's what we've come about," said Dorothy.

I rubbed my forehead wearily.

"Would one of you explain?" I asked. "I can't think what's happened. You're at least a paragraph ahead of me."

Reginald sat down again and lit a cigarette.

"It's simply this," he said, trying to keep calm. "You may call me what you like, but I am always the same person week after week."

"Nonsense. Why, it was Richard last week."

"But the same person."

"And Gerald the week before. Gerald, yes; he was rather a good chap."

"Just the same, only the name was different. And who are we? We are you as you imagine yourself to be."

I looked inquiringly at Dorothy.

"Last week," he went on, "you called me Richard. And I proposed to Phyllis."

"And I accepted him," said Dorothy.

"You!" I said. "What were YOU doing there, I should like to know?"

"Last week I was Phyllis."

"The week before," went on Reginald, "I was Gerald, and I proposed to Millicent."

"I was Millicent, and I accepted him."

"The week before that I was—Good Heavens, think of it—I was George!"

"A beastly name, I agree," I said.

"You gave it me."

"Yes, but I wasn't feeling very well that week."

"I was Mabel," put in Dorothy, "and I accepted him."

"No, no, no—no, don't say that. I mean, one doesn't accept people called George."

"You made me."

"Did I? I'm awfully sorry. Yes, I quite see your point."

"The week before," went on Reginald remorselessly, "I was—"

"Don't go back into February, please! February is such a rotten month with me. Well now, what's your complaint?"

"Just what I said," explained Reginald. "You think you have a new hero and heroine every week, but you're mistaken. We are always the same; and, personally, I am tired of proposing week after week to the same girl."

There was just something about Reginald that I seemed to recognize. Just the very slightest something.

"Then who are you really," I asked, "if you're always the same person?"

"Yourself. Not really yourself, of course, but yourself as you fondly imagine you are."

I laughed scornfully. "You're nothing of the sort. How ridiculous! The hero of my own stories, indeed! Myself idealized—then I suppose you think you're rather a fine fellow?" I sneered.

"I suppose you think I am."

"No, I don't. I think you are a silly ass. Saying I'm my own hero. I'm nothing of the sort. And I suppose Dorothy is me, too?"

"I'm the girl you're in love with," said Dorothy. "Idealized."

"I'm not in love with any one," I denied indignantly.

"Then your ideal girl."

"Ah, you might well be that," I smiled.

I looked at her longingly. She was wonderfully beautiful. I went a little closer to her.

"And we've come," said Reginald, putting his oar in again, "to say that we're sick of getting engaged every week."

I ignored Reginald altogether.

"Are you really sick of him?" I asked Dorothy.

"Yes!"

"As sick of him as I am?"

"I—I daresay."

"Then let's cross him out," I said. And I went back to the table and took up my pen. "Say the word," I said to Dorothy.

"Steady on," began Reginald uneasily. "All I meant was—"

"Personally, as you know," I said to Dorothy, "I think he's a silly ass. And if you think so too—"

"I say, look here, old chap—"

Dorothy nodded. I dipped the pen in the ink.

"Then out he goes," I said, and I drew a line through him. When I looked up only Dorothy was there....

"Dorothy!" I said. "At last!"

"But my name isn't really Dorothy, you know," she said with a smile. "It's Dorothy this week, and last week it was Phyllis, and the week before—"

"Then what is it really? Tell me! So that I may know my ideal when I see her again."

I got ready to write the name down. I dipped my pen in the ink again, and I drew a line through Dorothy, and then I looked up questioningly at her, and...

Fool, fool! She was gone!

II faut vivre. You'll see the story in one of the papers this week. You'll recognize it, because he is called Harold, and she is called Lucy. At the end of the second column he proposes and she accepts him. Lucy—of all names! It serves them right.