Existence downstairs fluctuated between heights of excitement and depths of gloom. The Crystal Palace authorities had a most unreasonable way of shipping men off to Mesopotamia, Salonika, Hongkong, Archangel, or anywhere else where they thought the air would prove salubrious, without a single word of inquiry as to whether the transfer met with cook’s approval. Hence, there was a series of constantly recurring blanks to mar what would otherwise have been a life of unsullied joyousness; and at such times of depression cook darkly hinted that punching tram tickets and ordering people to “move up a little on that side, please,” would be a deliriously exhilarating occupation compared with the monotony of cake-making for nobody-knows-who! As every gift-giver is aware, there is invariably a grey hiatus between the sending off of the gift and the arrival of the recipient’s gratitude; hence, the bustle and excitement of getting off each parcel of eatables and pair of socks and tin of tobacco was always followed by a spell of wistful longing, while the postal authorities, out of sheer perversity (we presumed), held back the letter that would have meant so much to Abigail. Moreover, Pamela was doing anything but contribute to the gaiety of nations! She was often in with Abigail on her spare evenings; and seemed to devote the time to perpetual croaks, on one occasion ending with the assurance that, for _her_ part, she should have nothing to do with a man who was merely a common sailor; self-respect, if nothing else, would make her look for something better than that. I am glad to say Abigail had sufficient spirit left to retort that if he was good enough to fight for her, he was good enough for the bestowal of a cake. Nevertheless, a decided coolness sprang up between them; and for a week or two after this exchange of confidences, Abigail appeared to be sinking in a rapid “decline” (as they used to call it), and I felt I was positively inhuman to expect her to do a hand’s turn in the house. Yet life was not entirely bereft of purple patches. The gloom consequent upon the Silence of the Navy lifted occasionally. As, for instance, when we had a bomb drop in our road. Yes, in our very road!—or, at any rate, it was only just round the corner; and, as everybody knows, one affectionately appropriates as one’s own all neighbouring roads (quite irrespective of the rentals, too) if they chance to possess a bomb. And, in any case, it _would_ have dropped in our road if only it had been a hundred yards nearer this way.