"Is it quite etiquette for clients to lend solicitors money?" I asked. "I thought it was always solicitors who had to lend it to clients. If I must, I'd rather lend it to you--I mean, I'd dislike it less--as to the old friend of my childhood." "Yes, that's how I wanted to pay it back." "Bother. Then I'll send you a cheque to-night," I sighed. And that's where we are at the moment. "PEOPLE BORN IN THIS MONTH ALWAYS KEEP THEIR PROMISES." The money has got to go to-night. If I hadn't been born in January I shouldn't be sending it; I certainly shouldn't have promised it; I shouldn't even have known that I had it. Sometimes I almost wish that I had been born in one of the decent months. March, say. A SUMMER COLD WHEN I am not feeling very well I go to Beatrice for sympathy and advice. Anyhow I get the advice. "I think," I said carelessly, wishing to break it to her as gently as possible, "I think I have hay-fever." "Nonsense," said Beatrice. That annoyed me. Why shouldn't I have hay-fever if I wanted to? "If you're going to begrudge me every little thing," I began. "You haven't even got a cold." As luck would have it a sneeze chose that moment for its arrival. "There!" I said triumphantly. "Why, my dear boy, if you had hay-fever you'd be sneezing all day." "That was only a sample. There are lots more where that came from." "Don't be so silly. Fancy starting hay-fever in September." "I'm not starting it. I am, I earnestly hope, just finishing it. If you want to know, I've had a cold all the summer." "Well, I haven't noticed it." "That's because I'm such a good actor. I've been playing the part of a man who hasn't had a cold all the summer. My performance is considered to be most life-like." Beatrice disdained to answer, and by and by I sneezed again. "You certainly have a cold," she said, putting down her work. "Come, this is something." "You must be careful. How did you catch it?" "I didn't catch it. It caught me." "Last week-end?" "No, last May." Beatrice picked up her work again impatiently. I sneezed a third time. "Is this more the sort of thing you want?" I said. "What I say is that you couldn't have had hay-fever all the summer without people knowing." "But, my dear Beatrice, people do know. In this quiet little suburb you are rather out of the way of the busy world. Rumours of war, depressions on the Stock Exchange, my hay-fever--these things pass you by. But the clubs are full of it. I assure you that, all over the country, England's stately homes have been plunged into mourning by the news of my sufferings, historic piles have bowed their heads and wept." "I suppose you mean that in every house you've been to this summer you've told them that you had it, and they've been foolish enough to believe you." "That's putting it a little crudely. What happens is--" "Well, all I can say is, you know a very silly lot of people."