"I will stay," I said, sitting down again, "and talk to you. Between ourselves, it is one of the reasons why I came. I thought you might like to hear all the latest news. Er--we've started strawberries in London." Miss Middleton sighed and shook her head. "But not here," she said. "I was afraid not, but I thought I'd remind you in case. Well, after all, what ARE strawberries? Let's talk about something else. Do you know that this is going to be the greatest season of history? I've got a free pass to the Earl's Court Exhibition, so I shall be right in the thick of it." "Oh, I thought last season was the great one." "It was spoilt by the Coronation, the papers say. You remember how busy we were at the Abbey; we hadn't time for anything else." "What else do the papers say? I seem to have missed them lately. I've had a thousand things to do." "Well, the Sardine Defence League has just been formed. I think of putting up for it. I suppose you have to swear to do one kind action to a sardine everyday. Let's both join, and then we shall probably get a lot of invitations." "Do they have a tent at the Eton and Harrow match?" asked Miss Middleton anxiously. "I will inquire. I wonder if there is a Vice-Presidency vacant. I should think a Vice-President of the Sardine Defence League could go anywhere." "V.P.S.D.L.," said Miss Middleton thoughtfully. "It would look splendid. I must remember to send you a postcard to-morrow." Tea came, and I put my deck-chair one rung up to meet it. It is difficult in a horizontal position to drink without spilling anything, and it looks so bad to go about covered with tea. "This is very jolly," I said. "Do you know that my view during working hours consists of two broken windows and fifty square feet of brick? It's not enough. It's not what I call a vista. On fine days I have to go outside to see whether the sun is shining." "You oughtn't to want to look out of the window when you're working. You'll never be a Mayor." "Well, it all makes me appreciate the country properly. I wish I knew more about gardens. Tell me all about yours. When are the raspberries ripe?" "Not till the end of June." "I was afraid you'd say that. May I come down and see your garden at the end of June--one day when I'm not at Earl's Court? You can give all the gardeners a holiday that day. I hate to be watched when I'm looking at flowers and things." "Are you as fond of raspberries as all that? Why didn't I know?" "I'm not a bit mad about them, really, but they're a symbol of Summer. On a sloshy day in November, as I grope my way through the fog, I say to myself, 'Courage, the raspberries will soon be ripe.'" "But that means that summer is half over. The cuckoo is what I'm listening for all through November. I heard it in April this year." I looked round to see that nobody was within earshot.