"Change your shoes instead," said I drowsily. "Or wear your waistcoat next to your skin. Then, whenever you want to look at your watch, you'll have to undress. That'll make you think." "You go and change your face," said Berry. "Don't wait for something to remember. Just go and do it by deed-poll. And then advertise it in _The Times_. You'll get so many letters of gratitude that you'll get tired of answering them." Before I could reply to this insult-- "I suppose," said my sister, "this means that you can't remember something which concerns me and really matters." In guilty silence her husband prepared a cigar for ignition with the utmost care. At length-- "I wouldn't go as far as that," he said. "But I confess that at the back of my mind, in, as it were, the upper reaches of my memory, there is a faint ripple of suggestion for which I cannot satisfactorily account. Now, isn't that beautifully put?" With a look of contempt, Daphne returned to the digestion of a letter which she had that morning received from the United States. Reflectively Berry struck a match and lighted his cigar. I followed the example of Jill and began to doze. With the exception of Jonah, who was in Somerset with the Fairies, we had been to Goodwood. I had driven the car both ways and was healthily tired, but the long ride had rendered us all weary, and the prospect of a full night and a quiet morrow was good to contemplate. On the following Tuesday we were going out of Town. Of this we were all unfeignedly glad, for London was growing stale. The leaves upon her trees were blown and dingy, odd pieces of paper crept here and there into her parks, the dust was paramount. What sultry air there was seemed to be second-hand. Out of the pounding traffic the pungent reek of oil and fiery metal rose up oppressive. Paint three months old was seamed and freckled. Look where you would, the silver sheen of Spring was dull and tarnished, the very stones were shabby, and in the summer sunshine even proud buildings of the smartest streets wore but a jaded look and lost their dignity. The vanity of bricks stood out in bold relief unsightly, dressing the gentle argument of Nature with such authority as set tired senses craving the airs and graces of the countryside and mourning the traditions of the children of men. "Adele," said Daphne suddenly, "is sailing next week." "Hurray," said Jill, waking up. "Liverpool or Southampton?" said I. "She doesn't say. But I told her to come to Southampton." "I expect she's got to take what she can get; only, when you're making for Hampshire, it seems a pity to go round by the Mersey."