We tossed, and of course I lost. I went up the drive nervously. At the first turn I decided to be an insurance inspector, at the next a scout-master, but, as I approached the front door, I thought of a very simple excuse. I rang the bell under the eyes of several people at lunch and looked about eagerly for the walnut tree. There was none. "Does Mr.--er--Erasmus--er--Percival live here?" I asked the footman. "No, sir," he said--luckily. "Ah! Was there ever a walnut--I mean _was_ there ever a Mr. Percival who lived here? Ah! Thank you," and I sped down the drive again. "Well?" said Celia eagerly. "Mr. Percival _doesn't_ live there." "Whoever's Mr. Percival?" "Oh, I forgot; you don't know him. Friends," I added solemnly, "I regret to tell you there is _no_ walnut tree." "I am not surprised," said Peter. The walk home was a silent one. For the rest of the day Celia was thoughtful. But at the end of dinner she brightened up a little and joined in the conversation. "At Hilderton Hall," she said suddenly, "we always----" "H'r'm," I said, clearing my throat loudly. "Peter, pass Celia the walnuts." . . . . . I have had great fun in London this week with the walnut joke, though Celia says she is getting tired of it. But I had a letter from Peter to-day which ended like this:-- "By the way, I was an ass last week. I took you to Banfield in mistake for Hilderton. I went to Hilderton yesterday and found Hilderton Hall--a large place _with_ a walnut tree. It's a little way out of the village, and is marked big on the next section of the map to the one we were looking at. You might tell Celia." True, I might.... Perhaps in a week or two I shall. DEFINITIONS As soon as we had joined the ladies after dinner Gerald took up a position in front of the fire. "Now that the long winter evenings are upon us," he began---- "Anyhow, it's always dark at half-past nine," said Norah. "Not in the morning," said Dennis, who has to be excused for anything foolish he says since he became obsessed with golf. "Please don't interrupt," I begged. "Gerald is making a speech." "I was only going to say that we might have a little game of some sort. Norah, what's the latest parlour game from London?" "Tell your uncle," I urged, "how you amuse yourselves at the Lyceum." "Do you know 'Hunt the Pencil'?" "No. What do you do?" "You collect five pencils; when you've got them, I'll tell you another game." "Bother these pencil games," said Dennis, taking an imaginary swing with a paper-knife. "I hope it isn't too brainy." "You'll want to know how to spell," said Norah severely, and she went to the writing-desk for some paper. In a little while--say, half an hour--we had each a sheet of paper and a pencil, and Norah was ready to explain. "It's called Definitions. I expect you all know it." We assured her we didn't.