"Are you Chelsea niner-seven-double-seven?" inquired a new voice, a little more distant but not so haughty. "No, nine I mean niner-double-seven-seven," I replied. "Same thing," said the voice of Chesterminster. "Stokehampton wants you." "Tell them--" I began, but my oratory was drowned by a rapid succession of small explosions, and out of this unholy crepitation emerged a still small voice which said, "Is that you, darling?" Then I suddenly remembered that Stokehampton is Suzanne's relatives' nearest town of call. "They want you to come tomorrow for the week-end," said Suzanne. "I lied to them and said you were busy working, but they said you can have the library to yourself whenever you want it, and spoke so nicely about you that I couldn't refuse to ring you up. Besides, I want you to come, and the figs and the mulberries are in splendid form." Suzanne knows that my idea of Heaven is a garden full of fig-trees and mulberry-bushes at the appropriate season of the year. But it was raining hard, and I abominate week-ends; and Suzanne's relatives are well-meaning folk who always want to arrange your day for you. "No, Suzanne," I said, "emphatically, no. I can't think of a convincing excuse at the moment, so you'd better say I'll be delighted to come. But tomorrow morning you'll get a wire from me announcing that I'm sick of the palsy--no, malaria, which they know I sometimes get--and that'll give you a good ground for returning yourself tomorrow. Your three minutes is up. Good-bye." With the inspiration still fresh upon me I wrote out the telegram and rang for Evangeline. "Evangeline," I said, "I may possibly be detained in bed tomorrow morning. In case that should happen"--she never betrayed even a flicker of the eye, although she could, an she would, tell Suzanne some damning tales of late rising during her absence--please send this telegram off before breakfast; that is, before _your_ breakfast." Evangeline curtseyed and withdrew. I had spent my leisure moments during the week teaching her the trick, as a surprise for Suzanne on her return. Next morning, as I lay in bed thinking out the subject of my next Message to the Nation, I was gratified to notice that the rain had ceased and the sun was shining genially. I thought of Suzanne and the refreshing fruit in Suzanne's relatives' attractive gardens. Should I go after all? I rang the bell. "Has that wire gone yet?" I asked. "Indeed I took it these two hours back," replied Evangeline. I looked at my watch and grunted. "Bring me a telegram-form," I commanded, "and some hotter hot water." So, having wired to Suzanne: "Malaria false alarm only passing effects of overwork coming by the one-thirty PERCIVAL," I found myself at tea-time being nursed back to health on mulberries-and-cream administered by the solicitous hands of Aunt-by-acquisition Lucy. "Well," I said to Suzanne a little later as we strolled in the direction of the fig-trees, "how did it go off--my first wire, I mean?"