Amid a volley of “good-nights” and “ta-tas” this extremely popular young person went to bed. Loth as I am to say it, even her father did not see fit to follow her example straight away. Events had fired him. He drank the health of Charlie, and he smoked the health of Charlie as sedulously as any. In fact, no man contributed more to the general undermining of Charlie’s health than he. He told his old-time stories of the cricket field. He also told some stories that were not of the cricket field, but were not the less relished on that account. He related how on one occasion on which he was bowling he killed a swallow as it flew across the pitch. And like the thorough cricketer he was he said that fact reminded him that he took nine wickets for sixteen in that particular match. Not wishing to incriminate any one, especially as two of the company were Clerks in Holy Orders, I do not intend to make any more definite statement in regard to the hour at which we did retire, than to say that it was after ten. But then no household in England could have had quite such provocation. Two members of one family going out with Stoddart to represent the Old Country in the autumn! It was enough to make an anchorite forego his way of life. The summer dawn was on the trees and peeping through the blinds when at last the Optimist and I appeared in the chamber of King Charles. The birds in their dew-steeped branches were twittering to the meadows and the cows. A cool, early fragrance came through the open windows and filled the room. Therefore, when the Optimist and I climbed into our several beds of white, sweet-smelling linen, and the young sun threw a stray beam or two upon our pillows, the luxury of lying awake was so much greater than that of going to sleep, that after spending ten ineffectual minutes in trying to do so, I gave it up as hopeless. “Brightside,” said I, at the end of that period, “are you asleep yet?” “Not much, and shan’t be,” said he. “I wonder why we are like this?” said I. “Seems funny, don’t it. Don’t feel a bit tired, do you?” “No,” said he, “only in the throat. Pollies and Scotches always make it feel a bit weary. But don’t those Trenthams touch ’em pretty. Awf’ly nice chaps though, aren’t they? Extends to their feminine faction too. I wonder why we can’t go to sleep? Does seem funny, as you say.” “Don’t it,” said I. “Have you any ’bacca? mine’s all cleared.” The Optimist reached for his coat and presently dropped his pouch on to my eye. Thereon I sat up in bed and lit a pipe. “By the way,” said I, “I want to ask you what colour you’d call Grace’s complexion?” “Haven’t noticed it particularly,” said he, suppressing a yawn. “Brightside,” said I severely, “don’t lie. And don’t yawn, because when you yawn you still lie.” “Girls are a topic that bores one, you know,” said he. “But I s’pose you did pop it. She seemed rather familiar. She called you Dimmy.” “You noticed that?” said I.