"George was quite a different man from Sir Arthur. So far from being elected to anything under Rule Two, he got blackballed for the St John's Wood Toilet Club. Opinions differed as to why this happened; some said it was his personal unpopularity (he had previously been up, without success, for membership of the local Ratepayers Association); others (among them the proprietor), that his hair grew too quickly. Anyhow, it was a great shock to George, and they had to have a man in to break it to him. (It's always the way when you have a man in.) "George was stricken to the heart. This last blow was too much for what had always been a proud nature. He decided to emigrate. Accordingly he left home, and moved to Kilburn. Whether he is still there or not I cannot say; but a card with that postmark reached his niece only this week. It was unsigned, and bore on the space reserved for inland communications these words: _The old old wish--A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year._" "But what about the javelin?" I asked Margery. (This fellow had a javelin too, you remember.) "_Gorky_," said Margery, for the third time which means-- Well, upon my word, I don't know what it means. But it would explain it all. Meanwhile, Sir Arthur (he was in my story, you know) is still waiting for the secretary. In case the butter gives out, have I mentioned that the secretary wants all the flowers to be white? THE ART OF CONVERSATION "In conversation," said somebody (I think it was my grandfather), "there should always be a give and take. The ball must be kept rolling." If he had ever had a niece two years old, I don't think he would have bothered. "What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing suddenly. "That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose." "What's 'at?" "Take your finger away. Ah, yes, that is dear uncle's eye. The left one." "Dear uncle's left one," said Margery thoughtfully. "What's it doing?" "Thinking." "What's finking?" "What dear uncle does every afternoon after lunch." "What's lunch?" "Eggs, sardines, macaroons--everything." With a great effort Margery resisted the temptation to ask what "everything" was (a difficult question), or what everything was doing (a still more difficult one), and made a statement of her own. "Santa Claus bring Margie a balloon from daddy," she announced. "A balloon! How jolly!" I said with interest. "What sort are you having? One of those semi-detached ones with the gas laid on, or the pink ones with a velvet collar?" "Down chimney," said Margery. "Oh, _that_ kind. Do you think--I mean, isn't it rather----" "Tell Margie a story about a balloon." "Bother," I murmured. "What's bovver?"