"Murray brought it to me, instead of paying it into the bank. I thought if you asked me to marry you I'd give it you back as a good-bye present." She paused. "As you haven't done so, Tony," she added, "I think I shall have to cash it." Tony dropped the cheque on the table. "I don't understand," he repeated helplessly. "My father's real name," said Musette, "was Morris." Tony stared at her. "Morris," he repeated mechanically. Musette smiled. "Well, he liked to think it was Morris," she added. "I believe, as a strict matter of fact, that it was originally Moses. At least, mother always said so. Anyhow, he was a very good father. He left me his business, Tony, and Murray to help me look after it." Tony jumped up from his chair. "Great Scot!" he cried. Musette shook her head. "No, Tony," she said. "He's a Jew, too, only, like father, he's ashamed of it. I'm the only one in the firm with any honest British blood. At least, I believe mother came from Dublin. She was never quite sure about it." Tony said nothing; he only stared at her. "It brings me in about nine thousand a year," added Musette, with reflective inconsequence; "so it would be a pity to drop it, wouldn't it?" There was a silence, lasting for about a minute. Then Tony came over to Musette, and stood looking down into her eyes. "Good-bye, Musette," he said simply. "I am several kinds of a blackguard, and I don't think it's very probable that we shall ever see each other again, but at all events I didn't ask you to marry me." Musette smiled. "I think, Tony," she said, "that you are the only man who has ever paid me a compliment that I care about." Then, as Tony turned to go, she got up from her chair and stood in front of him, with her hands behind her back. "And I am sure, Tony," she added calmly, "that you are the only man I know who would never bore me." For a second Tony hesitated. Then, taking her by the shoulders, cool, fragrant, and smiling, he drew her into his arms. And on this occasion Tony's conscience seemed quite satisfied. "Squarky-woo" Once upon a time there was a little mouse called Squarky-woo, who lived behind the wainscoting in a house in Berkeley Square. His mother, who lived with him, was very old, and very grey, and very wise. He called her Mammy-ana, partly from affection and partly because it was her name. She was a widow, Squarky-woo's father having met with a tabby catastrophe in the kitchen, which had abruptly terminated his stainless career in the very flower of mousehood. It had been a cruel blow to Mammy-ana, who had loved him dearly, and would not have lost him for all the cheese in Cheddar. She had dragged his remains from the dust-heap on to which they had been thrown, and lovingly interred them beneath the dining-room floor, erecting over his grave the simple and touching memorial: REQUIESCAT IN PUSSIE