"Poor fool," said my brother-in-law. "For the trumpet notes, to which it has just been your privilege to listen, there is a great future. In short, my voice is futurist. The moment they hear it, the few who have paid for their seats will realize what the box-office will say when they demand the return of their money." "And those who have not paid?" said I. "Oh, they will understand why they were given tickets." "Suppose you write that letter," said Daphne wearily. I bent over the writing-block. "You know," said Berry, "I don't think this bath's at all necessary." At this there was a great uproar. At length: "Besides," said my sister, "we all decided that we must have another bath ages ago. The only question there's ever been was where to put it." "Of course," said I. "If we don't, where are we going to dip the sheep?" "Well, I think it's a shame to pull the old place about like this. If we're so awfully dirty, we'd better find another house that's got four bathrooms already, and sell White Ladies." "Sell White Ladies?" cried Jill. Berry nodded. "Not only lock and stock, but barrel too. Yes," he added bitterly, "the old water-butt must go." "Look here," said I. "It occurs to me that this isn't a case for a letter. We ought to go and choose a bath properly." "That's rather an idea," said Daphne. "Simply sparkling," said her husband. "Personally, I've got something better to do than to burst down to South London, and stagger round floor after floor, staring at baths." "You needn't worry," said Daphne coolly. "I wouldn't go with you for a hundred pounds." Berry turned to us others. "Yet we love one another," he said, with a leer in his wife's direction. "In reality I am the light of her eyes. The acetylene gas, as it were, of her existence. Well, well." He rose and stretched himself. "I wash my hands of the whole matter. Note the appropriate simile. Install what cistern you please. If approached properly, I may consent to test the work when complete. Mind you spare no expense." "We don't propose to," said Daphne. Berry regarded her sorrowfully. "I suppose," he said, "I suppose you know what word will be found at the post-mortem graven upon my heart?" "What?" said Daphne, stifling a yawn. "Plunge." It was quite a good day to choose a bath. True, it was winter. But then the sun was shining out of a clear, blue sky, there was a rare freshness in the London air, and beneath me--for I was crossing Westminster Bridge--old Thames marched all a-glitter. I watched his passage gratefully. It was that of a never-ending band. Playing all the way, too, but silently. Yet, the music was there. The pity was that one could not hear it. The pomp, the swagger, the swing of the Guards, the shifting movement, the bright array--all these were unmistakable. The very lilt of the air made itself felt. Very cheery. Certainly, the river was en fete.