of the
unaccountable draught. True, it often turns the fancy towards sweet
thoughts of love--but the fancy usually ends with an influenza cold
through indulging in sentimental dalliance upon the grass. On the
whole, I always think that spring in England is nicer to sing about
than experience. It is delightful as a season of "promise"--but, like
humanity, it often treats its promises like pie-crusts. Still, it _is_
spring, and--although the body rarely recognises the fact except to
ruin by biliousness the romance which is surging in its heart--summer
is, as it were, knocking at the door. And from June to mid-July--that
surely is the glory of the year! After July, summer becomes a little
dusty at the hem. Still, dusty, or even dirty, it makes life worth
living. Nevertheless, I only wish that it were greedier and stole
three months away from winter. For winter is too long, and spring is
too uncertain, and autumn too full of "Farewell."

But summer never palls. And we have five summers to make up for,
haven't we? For no one could really enjoy anything during the war
except the war news--when it was favourable. But now we can--well, if
not enjoy ourselves, at least lie back, just whispering to ourselves
that, when the sun shines the world is a lovely place, and, so far as
England is concerned, there is at any rate a kind of camouflaged peace.
And so we have to be very very old if we cannot feel in our hearts a
breath of youth and spring. After all, when the sun shines, we are, or
feel we are, of any age--or of no age whatever. And if we cannot burst
into flower like the roses, we can at least enjoy the beauty of the
rose when it blooms--which other roses cannot do. Thus, with a few
small mercies, life is very good when the sun shines, isn't it?

_Bad-tempered People_

I would sooner live with an immoral man or woman than a bad-tempered
one. An immoral person can often be a very charming companion, quite
easy to live with--if you take the various excuses for sudden absences
at their face value, and don't probe too deeply into the business; in
fact, if you are not in love with the absentee. A bad-tempered person
in the house may have the morality of the angels--but life with him is
a daily "hell," like always living with strangers, or a mad dog, or in
a room full of those ornaments which belong, almost exclusively, to
lodging-houses everywhere. Briefly, he is always _there_--ready to
burst into flame