I reached the zenith of my fame when a police inspector, accompanied by a subordinate, rang the front door bell, and understood that I had in my possession a portion of a Zeppelin that had foundered on my lawn. It appeared that he had been up all night, and had worn out miles of shoe leather, hunting for the missing half of that Zeppelin; and had I the gondola as well? He seemed to suspect that I might be holding that back in order to have it stuffed and put under a glass shade in the drawing-room. He looked disappointed when I showed him the fragment of iron; said they had plenty of bits that size; but he admitted that none of them had a spike like that at one end, and darkly hinted that it might be just the missing link they were looking for. Then he and the subordinate tenderly carried it away between them. We all intend to visit the War Museum later on. Personally, I’m very keen to see what they ticket it. * * * * * Nevertheless, when each little excitement subsided, reaction set in, and Abigail’s spirits promptly dropped to zero. But at length a post card arrived in time to save her (and us) from utter collapse, and the bath-taps were once more polished to the tune of “Days and moments quickly flying.” Thus, as I have already stated, winter merged into spring; and then spring made way for early summer (as I’ve known it do before), and we racked our brains to find a suitable substitute for pork pie. Oh, yes, we had departed months ago from the “nothing but cake” rule. We decided that a thin, anæmic-looking young man (as per the photographic group) needed still more feeding up, and there wasn’t a sufficiency of body-building material in modern cake, as everyone knows who has sampled war-flour, even with currants _as well_ as carraways. So the Head of Affairs and I stoically relinquished the one thin slice of breakfast bacon that we had shared between us each morning, and devoted the proceeds to pork pies for the Navy—in accordance with the highest ideals of the Food Controller. But, as every good housewife knows, you mustn’t feed your family—let alone your friends—on pork pie when there isn’t an R in the month; and with April nearing its end, and May looming, what was to take its place? As cook said, you are so dreadfully handicapped when you have to sew up your parcel in calico; you can’t send soused mackerel, or Welsh rabbit with Red Tape tied round you like that! Abigail suggested potted shrimps; but cook scornfully reminded her that seafaring men, living in the midst of shrimps and salt fish all their days, weren’t likely to hanker after it at meal times. We compromised on savoury cheese patties—a come-down after the pork pie, we admitted; only we could think of nothing else equally nutritive and seasonable.