I was whirled on this roundabout for a bit, and then had the fortune to fall off into a _tête-à-tête_ with a lady whom my aunt introduced as Mrs. Mumble—but then she introduced everybody to me as Mumble that afternoon, either by way of humour or necessity. That must have been one of my earliest essays in the art of polite conversation, and I remember that I began by criticising the local railway service, and that at the third sentence or thereabouts Mrs. Mumble said in a distinctly bright and encouraging way that she feared I was a very “frivolous” person. I wonder now what it was I said that was “frivolous.” I don’t know what happened to end that conversation, or if it had an end. I remember talking to one of the clergy for a time rather awkwardly, and being given a sort of topographical history of Beckenham, which he assured me time after time was “Quite an old place. _Quite_ an old place.” As though I had treated it as new and he meant to be very patient but very convincing. Then we hung up in a distinct pause, and my aunt rescued me. “George,” she said in a confidential undertone, “keep the pot a-boiling.” And then audibly, “I say, will you both old trot about with tea a bit?” “Only too delighted to _trot_ for you, Mrs. Ponderevo,” said the clergyman, becoming fearfully expert and in his elements; “only too delighted.” I found we were near a rustic table, and that the housemaid was behind us in a suitable position to catch us on the rebound with the tea things. “Trot!” repeated the clergyman to me, much amused; “excellent expression!” And I just saved him from the tray as he turned about. We handed tea for a while.... “Give ’em cakes,” said my aunt, flushed, but well in hand. “Helps ’em to talk, George. Always talk best after a little nourishment. Like throwing a bit of turf down an old geyser.” She surveyed the gathering with a predominant blue eye and helped herself to tea. “They keep on going stiff,” she said in an undertone.... “I’ve done my best.” “It’s been a huge success,” I said encouragingly. “That boy has had his legs crossed in that position and hasn’t spoken for ten minutes. Stiffer and stiffer. Brittle. He’s beginning a dry cough—always a bad sign, George.... Walk ’em about, shall I?—rub their noses with snow?” Happily she didn’t. I got myself involved with the gentlewoman from next door, a pensive, languid-looking little woman with a low voice, and fell talking; our topic, Cats and Dogs, and which it was we liked best. “I always feel,” said the pensive little woman, “that there’s something about a dog—A cat hasn’t got it.” “Yes,” I found myself admitting with great enthusiasm, “there is something. And yet again—” “Oh! I know there’s something about a cat, too. But it isn’t the same.” “Not quite the same,” I admitted; “but still it’s something.” “Ah! But such a different something!” “More sinuous.” “Much more.” “Ever so much more.” “It makes all the difference, don’t you think?” “Yes,” I said, “_all_.”