is
Juno's great-aunt. "_We_ never throw rice at our wedding-people!
_That_'s only done by the outlying tribes of barbarians." It was a
pity she attracted his notice, for he was down on her directly for
having on a toque almost entirely made of young turnips and carrots.
He said it was "an infraction of rule 150, cap. 4,500 of the Safety of
the Empire Act, forbidding the use of the people's food for personal
adornment."

The Allotment expression, which is the correct one now, is a look of
interest and expectation, because what one's planted is coming up.
_Some_ people rather spoil their Allotment expression by a _puzzled_
look. _Et pourquoi_? dear, they've _quite_ forgotten what they
planted, and, though they _pretend_ they know _exactly_ what it is
that's coming up, they really haven't the slightest!

My last photo is considered to show the Allotment expression in utter
perfection. (It's been in _People of Position, Mayfair Murmurs_, and
several other weeklies.) I'm standing in my potato-patch (my Allotment
toilette is finished off by a pair of _enthralling_ little hob-nailed
boots!) and I'm holding a rake and a hoe and a digging-fork in one
hand and a garden-hose in the other; there's a wheel-barrow beside me,
and I'm looking at the potato-plants with the _true_ Allotment smile,
my dearest. I sent a copy of this picky to Norty, and under it I wrote
those famous last words of some celebrated Frenchman (I forget whether
it was MOLIERE or MIRABEAU or NAPOLEON): "_Je vais chercher un grand
peut-etre!_"

Wee-Wee is frightfully worried about Bo-Bo being so overworked. He
used to be at the head of the Department for Telling People What to
Do, and he and his five hundred assistants were worked half dead;
and _now_ he's at the head of a still newer department, the one for
Telling People What They're _Not_ to Do, and, though he's eight
hundred clerks to help him, Wee-Wee says the strain is too great for
words. He goes to Whitehall at ten every day and comes back at three!
And then he has the Long-Ago treatment that's being used so much now
for war-frayed nerves. The idea is to get people as far away from the
present as poss. So when Bo-Bo comes in from Whitehall he lies down on
a fearful old worm-eaten oak settle in a dim room hung with moth-eaten
tapestry, and Wee-Wee reads CHAUCER to him, and sings ghastly little
folk-songs, accompanying herself on a thing called a _crwth_--(it's a
tremendously primitive sort of harp, but