house and garden and
outside the gates, and he's nowhere to be seen."

"Is he anywhere to be heard?" asked Clovis; "if not, he must be at
least two miles away."

"But where? And how?" asked the distracted mother.

"Perhaps an eagle or a wild beast has carried him off," suggested
Clovis.

"There aren't eagles and wild beasts in Surrey," said Mrs. Momeby, but
a note of horror had crept into her voice.

"They escape now and then from travelling shows. Sometimes I think
they let them get loose for the sake of the advertisement. Think what a
sensational headline it would make in the local papers: 'Infant son of
prominent Nonconformist devoured by spotted hyaena.' Your husband
isn't a prominent Nonconformist, but his mother came of Wesleyan stock,
and you must allow the newspapers some latitude."

"But we should have found his remains," sobbed Mrs. Momeby.

"If the hyaena was really hungry and not merely toying with his food
there wouldn't be much in the way of remains. It would be like the
small-boy-and-apple story--there ain't going to be no core."

Mrs. Momeby turned away hastily to seek comfort and counsel in some
other direction. With the selfish absorption of young motherhood she
entirely disregarded Clovis's obvious anxiety about the asparagus
sauce. Before she had gone a yard, however, the click of the side gate
caused her to pull up sharp. Miss Gilpet, from the Villa Peterhof, had
come over to hear details of the bereavement. Clovis was already
rather bored with the story, but Mrs. Momeby was equipped with that
merciless faculty which finds as much joy in the ninetieth time of
telling as in the first.

"Arnold had just come in; he was complaining of rheumatism--"

"There are so many things to complain of in this household that it
would never have occurred to me to complain of rheumatism," murmured
Clovis.

"He was complaining of rheumatism," continued Mrs. Momeby, trying to
throw a chilling inflection into a voice that was already doing a good
deal of sobbing and talking at high pressure as well.

She was again interrupted.

"There is no such thing as rheumatism," said Miss Gilpet. She said it
with the conscious air of defiance that a waiter adopts in announcing
that the cheapest-priced claret in the wine-list is no more. She did
not proceed, however, to offer the alternative of some more expensive
malady, but denied the existence of them all.

Mrs. Momeby's temper began to shine out throu