n)
others (among them the Proprietor), that his hair grew too quickly.
Anyhow, it was a great shock to George, and they had to have a man in to
break it to him. (It's always the way when you have a man in.)

"George was stricken to the heart. This last blow was too much for what
had always been a proud nature. He decided to emigrate. Accordingly he
left home, and moved to Islington. Whether he is still there or not I
cannot say; but a card with that postmark reached his niece only this
week. It was unsigned, and bore on the space reserved for inland
communications these words: 'The old, old wish--A Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year.'"

"But what about the javelin?" I asked Margery. (This fellow had a
javelin too, you remember.)

"Gorky," said Margery for the third time, which means----

Well, upon my word, I don't know what it means. But it would explain it
all.

Meanwhile Sir Arthur (he was in my story, you know) is still waiting for
the Secretary. In case the butter gives out, have I mentioned that the
Secretary wants _all_ the flowers to be white?

IV. THE ART OF CONVERSATION

"In conversation," said somebody (I think it was my grandfather), "there
should always be a give and take. The ball must be kept rolling." If he
had ever had a niece two years old, I don't think he would have
bothered.

"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing suddenly.

"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose."

"What's 'at?"

"Take your finger away. Ah, yes, that is dear uncle's eye. The left
one."

"Dear uncle's left one," said Margery thoughtfully. "What's it doing?"

"Thinking."

"What's finking?"

"What dear uncle does every afternoon after lunch."

"What's lunch?"

"Eggs, sardines, macaroons--everything."

With a great effort Margery resisted the temptation to ask what
"everything" was (a difficult question), and made a statement of her
own.

"Santa Claus bring Margie a balloon from Daddy," she announced.

"A balloon! How jolly!" I said with interest. "What sort are you having?
One of those semi-detached ones with the gas laid on, or the pink ones
with a velvet collar?"

"Down chimney," said Margery.

"Oh, that kind. Do you think--I mean, isn't it rather----"

"Tell Margie a story about a balloon."

"Bother," I murmured.

"What's bovver?"

"Bother is what you say when relations ask you to tell them a story
about a balloon. It means, 'But for the fact that we both have the
Montmorenc