alls upon us,
and we call upon no one. We go to a country church on Sunday once, just
for the novelty of it; and this year Mr. Amarinth and Lord Reggie are
going to have a school treat. Last year they got up a mothers' meeting
instead, and Mr. Amarinth read his last essay on 'The Wickedness of
Virtue' aloud to the mothers. They so enjoyed it. One of them said to me
afterwards, 'I never knew what religion really was before, ma'am.' They
are so deliciously simple, you know. I call my stay in the desert 'the
Surrey week.' It is such fun. You will come, won't you?"

Lady Locke was laughing almost against her will.

"Is Jim to be there?" she asked, putting the china bowl, that had held
her Bovril, down upon the tiny table, covered with absurd silver
knickknacks, at her side.

"Dear no. Jim stays in town, and has his annual rowdy-dowdy week. He
looks forward to it immensely. Will you come?"

"If I may bring Tommy? I don't like to part from him. I am an
old-fashioned mother, and quite fond of my boy."

"But that's not old-fashioned. It is our girls we dislike. We always
take the boys everywhere. You must not mind close quarters. We live in a
sort of big cottage that I have built near Leith Hill. We walk up the
hill nearly every day after lunch. Tommy can play about with the
curate's little boys. They all wear spectacles; but I believe they are
quite nice-minded, so that will be all right, as you are so particular."

"And do green carnations bloom on the cottage walls?"

"My dear Emily, green carnations never bloom on walls at all. Of course
they are dyed. That is why they are original. Mr. Amarinth says Nature
will soon begin to imitate them, as she always imitates everything,
being naturally uninventive. However, she has not started this summer
yet."

"That is lazy of her."

"Yes. Well, good-night, dear. I am so glad you will come. Breakfast in
your room at any time you like of course. Will you have tea or hock and
seltzer?"

"Tea, please."

They kissed.

III.

Mr. Amarinth and Lord Reggie did not go to bed so early. After the
performance of "Faust" was over they strolled arm in arm towards a
certain small club that they much affected, a little house tucked into a
corner not far from Covent Garden, with a narrow passage instead of a
hall, and a long supper-room filled with tiny tables. They made their
way gracefully to their own particular table at the end of the room,
where they could converse unhea