"I don't want to be hard," he said, "but in justice to the people who come to stay with you I can't go any lower." "Not if we did without wine?" "Six hundred." "Wine and cigars, Charles?" "Six hundred." "I'll give up auction." Charles cleared his throat as though about to make a concession. "Make it five," I pleaded. "Make it five and you shall be my best man." "Very well," he said, "I make it five hundred." "And now, Charles, good-bye." "Why good-bye?" "I love her," I said simply. "Poor old thing," he said. "Let me know about the wedding. I must make a point of being there." I pressed his hand. "You're a brick," I said. Then I hurried out into a taxi and drove to Daphne's. She refused me. * * * * * THE LEAN-TO SHED. (_Communicated by an eight-year-old._) I've a palace set in a garden fair, And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, Always growing And always blowing Winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- For there's never a wind that dares to scatter The wonderful petals that scent the air About the walls of my palace there. And the palace itself is very old, And it's built of ivory splashed with gold. It has silver ceilings and jasper floors And stairs of marble and crystal doors; And whenever I go there, early or late, The two tame dragons who guard the gate And refuse to open the frowning portals To sisters, brothers and other mortals, Get up with a grin And let me in. And I tickle their ears and pull their tails And pat their heads and polish their scales; And they never attempt to flame or fly, Being quelled by me and my human eye. Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons, Drink for my two tame trusty dragons.... But John, Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, John declares They are Teddy-bears; And the palace itself, he has often said, Is only the gardener's lean-to shed. In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and shields and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smashing And slashing The Paynim armies at Ascalon.... But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.