ing a bit
of a practical philosopher I could always derive some entertainment
from her serial romance of a Gastric Juice, and besides, she was the
only person in Wellingsford whom I did not shrink from boring with the
song of my own ailments. Rather than worry the Fenimores or Betty or
Mrs. Holmes with my aches and pains I would have hung on, like the
idiot boy of Sparta with the fox, until my vitals were gnawed
out--parenthetically, it has always worried me to conjecture why a boy
should steal a fox, why it should have been so valuable to the owner,
and to what use he put it. In the case of all my other friends I
regarded myself as too much of an obvious nuisance, as it was, for me
to work on their sympathy for infirmities that I could hide; but with
Mrs. Boyce it was different. The more I chanted antistrophe to her
strophe of lamentation the more was I welcome in her drawing-room. I
had not seen her for some weeks. Perhaps I had been feeling remarkably
well with nothing in the world to complain about, and therefore
unequipped with a topic of conversation. However, hearty or not, it was
time for me to pay her a visit. So I ordered the car.

Mrs. Boyce lived in a comfortable old house half a mile or so beyond
the other end of the town, standing in half a dozen well-wooded acres.
It was a fair April afternoon, all pale sunshine and tenderness. A
dream of fairy green and delicate pink and shy blue sky melting into
pearl. The air smelt sweet. It was good to be in it, among the trees
and the flowers and the birds.

Others must have also felt the calls of the spring, for as we were
driving up to the house, I caught a glimpse of the lawn and of two
figures strolling in affectionate attitude. One was that of Mrs. Boyce;
the other, khaki-clad and towering above her, had his arm round her
waist. The car pulled up at the front door. Before we had time to ring,
a trim parlour-maid appeared.

"Mrs. Boyce is not at home, sir."

Marigold, who, when my convenience was in question, swept away social
conventions like cobwebs, fixed her with his one eye, and before I
could interfere, said:

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I've just seen Major Boyce and Madam on
the lawn."

The maid reddened and looked at me appealingly.

"My orders were to say not at home, sir."

"I quite understand, Mary," said I. "Major Boyce is home on short
leave, and they don't want to be disturbed. Isn't that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Marigold," said I. "Right