"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 Montmorency blood in our veins, I should be compelled to decline your kind invitation, all the stories I know about balloons being stiff 'uns.' It also means, 'Instead of talking about balloons, won't you sing me a little song?'" "Nope," said Margery. "Bother, she's forgotten her music." "What did you say, uncle dear; what did you say?" I sighed and began. "Once upon a time there was a balloon, a dear little toy balloon, and--and----" "What's 'at?" asked Margery, making a dab at my chest. "What's 'at, uncle dear?" "That," I said, "is a button. More particularly a red waistcoat button. More particularly still, my top red waistcoat button." "What's 'at?" she asked, going down one. "That is a button. Description: second red waistcoat. Parents living: both. Infectious diseases: scarlet fever slightly once." "What's 'at?" "That's a--ah, yes, a button. The third. A good little chap, but not so chubby as his brothers. He couldn't go down to Margate with them last year, and so, of course--Well, as I was saying, there was once a balloon, and----" "What's a-a-'at?" said Margery, bending forward suddenly and kissing it. "Look here, you've jolly well got to enclose a stamped addressed envelope with the next question. As a matter of fact, though you won't believe me, that again is a button." "What's 'at?" asked Margery, digging at the fifth button. "Owing to extreme pressure on space," I began.... "Thank you. That also is a button. Its responsibility is greater than that of its brethren. The crash may come at any moment. Luckily it has booked its passage to the--where was I? Oh yes--well, this balloon----" "What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the last one. "I must have written notice of that question. I can't tell you offhand." "What's 'at, uncle dear?" "Well, I don't know, Margie. It looks something like a collar stud, only somehow you wouldn't expect to find a collar stud there. Of course it may have slipped.... Or could it be one of those red beads, do you think?... N-no--no, it isn't a bead.... And it isn't a raspberry, because this is the wrong week for raspberries. Of course it might be a--By Jove, I've got it! It's a button." I gave the sort of war-whoop with which one announces these discoveries, and Margery whooped too. "A button," she cried. "A dear little button!" She thought for a moment. "What's a button?" This was ridiculous.