tle down again to the monotony of a life of ten till four after after—the last four years."
"Unless, of course, you happen to be a fountain," Lord Drewitt had interpolated, without looking up from his walnut.
"I said it was the war," broke in Edward Seymour, looking triumphantly across at his wife, emboldened by the knowledge that his legs were tucked safely away beneath his chair.
"And what do you propose to do?" Lady Drewitt had demanded, with the air of one who knew she had propounded a conundrum to which there is no answer.
"Oh," said Beresford airily, "I shall just walk into the sun. You see, Aunt Caroline," he said, bending forward, "I've only got one life and"
"And how many do you suppose I have?" Lady Drewitt had demanded scornfully, snapping her jaws in a peculiarly unpleasant way she had.
"I repeat, Aunt Caroline," he had proceeded imperturbably, "that I have only one life, and rather than go back to the F.O. I prefer to"
"Seek nature in her impregnable fastnesses," suggested Lord Drewitt, looking across at his cousin with a smile.
"Impregnable fiddlesticks," Lady Drewitt had cried derisively, "he will get his feet wet and die of bronchitis or pneumonia."
"And we shall have to go down to the inquest," said Lord Drewitt, "and lunch execrably at some
