"By the way, Lorna was there this morning," said Celia. "Her brother's in the War Office." "And what did KITCHENER tell him when they last had lunch together?" I asked. "Well," smiled Celia, "he does say that----" I get all my best news from Celia nowadays. When I meet you in the City and mention that I know for a fact that the KAISER is in hiding at Liverpool, you may be sure that Celia saw Vera yesterday morning, and that Vera's uncle is somebody important on the Liverpool Defence Committee. Twice a week Celia ties up parcels for the Fleet. Ordinary people provide the blankets, sea-boots, chocolate, periscopes and so forth; Celia looks after the brown paper and string, which always seems to me the most tricky part. There are a dozen of them, all working together; and you can imagine (or, anyhow, _I_ can) Vera or Kitty or Isobel, her mouth full of knot, gossiping away about her highly-placed relations, while Beryl or Evelyn or Lorna looks up from the parcel she is kneeling on and interrupts, "Well, my _brother_ heard----I say, where did you put my scissors?" "Well," smiled Celia, "Lorna's brother in the War Office says the war will be over by Christmas." "Hooray," I said; and I went out and looked at my cigar. This cigar arrived at my house in a case of samples last July. The samples went up from right to left in order of importance, each in his own little bed--until you got to Torpedo Jimmy at the end, who had a double bed to himself. Starting with _Cabajo fino_ in the right-hand corner, the prices ranged from about nine a penny to five pounds apiece, the latter being the approximate charge for T. James or any of his brethren. Celia was looking over my shoulder when I opened the case, and she surveyed my brown friends with interest. "When are you going to smoke _that_ one?" she asked, touching Torpedo Jimmy's cummerbund with the tip of her finger. "On your birthday," I said. "Bother, then I shan't see much of you. Couldn't you smoke it on two ordinary days instead?" "You can only smoke a cigar that size after a very good dinner," I explained. "What was the matter with the tapioca pudding last night?" said Celia sternly. "I mean you must have champagne and bands and lots of lights, and managers bowing all round you, and pretty people in the distance, and--all that sort of thing. You can't do that at home. Besides, I shall want a waiter or two to hold the far end of it while I'm smoking. It'll be all right going there; we can put it on the top of a cab." "Of course it will be lovely going out with you," said Celia, "but Jane will be very disappointed. She'd have liked to hear it buzzing." "I hope it won't buzz," I said. "Couldn't you smoke it now, and then we'd go out next week and celebrate your recovery." She sighed. "My birthday's a long way off," she said wistfully, thinking of the band and the lights and the pretty people in the distance--and not necessarily in the distance either.