“One’s mind often plays one little tricks like that,” said Mr. Peter, with desperate heartiness. “Only the other day I went into the town to pay a bill, and went in again next day, having clean forgotten that I’d—” “It is certainly the jug I bought for you,” said Wilfrid, looking closely at it; “it was in my portmanteau when I got my bath-robe out this morning, before going to my bath, and it was not there when I unlocked the portmanteau on my return. Some one had taken it while I was away from the room.” The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a final inspiration. “Get me my smelling-salts, dear,” she said to her husband; “I think they’re in the dressing-room.” Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so long during the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed within measurable distance. Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness. “A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn’t happened. Peter’s little weakness; it runs in the family.” “Good Lord! Do you mean to say he’s a kleptomaniac, like Cousin Snatcher?” “Oh, not exactly,” said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband a little greyer than she was painting him. “He would never touch anything he found lying about, but he can’t resist making a raid on things that are locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must have pounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and taken the first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking a cream jug; we’ve already got _seven_, as you know—not, of course, that we don’t value the kind of gift you and your mother—hush here’s Peter coming.” Mrs. Peter broke off in some confusion, and tripped out to meet her husband in the hall. “It’s all right,” she whispered to him; “I’ve explained everything. Don’t say anything more about it.” “Brave little woman,” said Peter, with a gasp of relief; “I could never have done it.” * * * * * Diplomatic reticence does not necessarily extend to family affairs. Peter Pigeoncote was never able to understand why Mrs. Consuelo van Bullyon, who stayed with them in the spring, always carried two very obvious jewel-cases with her to the bath-room, explaining them to any one she chanced to meet in the corridor as her manicure and face-massage set. THE OCCASIONAL GARDEN