he Far
East put his digestion on the blink, and the only cook that has ever been
discovered capable of pushing food into him without starting something
like Old Home Week in Moscow under the third waistcoat button is this
uniquely gifted Anatole. Deprived of Anatole's services, all he was
likely to give the wife of his b. was a dirty look. Yes, unquestionably,
things seemed to have struck a somewhat rocky patch, and I must admit
that I found myself, at moment of going to press, a little destitute of
constructive ideas.

Confident, however, that these would come ere long, I kept the stiff
upper lip.

"Bad," I conceded. "Quite bad, beyond a doubt. Certainly a nasty jar for
one and all. But have no fear, Aunt Dahlia, I will fix everything."

I have alluded earlier to the difficulty of staggering when you're
sitting down, showing that it is a feat of which I, personally, am not
capable. Aunt Dahlia, to my amazement, now did it apparently without an
effort. She was well wedged into a deep arm-chair, but, nevertheless, she
staggered like billy-o. A sort of spasm of horror and apprehension
contorted her face.

"If you dare to try any more of your lunatic schemes----"

I saw that it would be fruitless to try to reason with her. Quite
plainly, she was not in the vein. Contenting myself, accordingly, with a
gesture of loving sympathy, I left the room. Whether she did or did not
throw a handsomely bound volume of the Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, at
me, I am not in a position to say. I had seen it lying on the table
beside her, and as I closed the door I remember receiving the impression
that some blunt instrument had crashed against the woodwork, but I was
feeling too pre-occupied to note and observe.

I blame myself for not having taken into consideration the possible
effects of a sudden abstinence on the part of virtually the whole
strength of the company on one of Anatole's impulsive Provencal
temperament. These Gauls, I should have remembered, can't take it. Their
tendency to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation is well
known. No doubt the man had put his whole soul into those _nonnettes de
poulet_, and to see them come homing back to him must have gashed him
like a knife.

However, spilt milk blows nobody any good, and it is useless to dwell
upon it. The task now confronting Bertram was to put matters right, and I
was pacing the lawn, pondering to this end, when I suddenly heard a groan
so lost-soulish