to end. Just between ourselves, you know."

"This being the case," he went on (evidently trying to change the
subject--no War Office secrets to be got out of _him_, you notice),
"I must request you to show me your fruit-trees and also your jam
cupboard."

"The latter," I said--for he had called just after tea--"is rather
full at present, but doing nicely, thanks. As you observe, however, we
think it wiser not to try to close the bottom button of the door."

"Perhaps your wife--" suggested the man tentatively.

"My wife does her best, of course. She often says, 'Dearest, a third
pot of tea if you _like_, but I'm sure a third cup of jam wouldn't be
good for you.' By the way, don't you want to see the tea-orchard too?
The Cox's Orange Pekoes have done frightfully well this year--the new
blend, you know; or should I say hybrid?"

At this moment my wife appeared, looking particularly charming in a
_mousseline de soie aux fines herbes--anglicé_, a sprigged muslin. I
seized her hand and led her aside.

"Lord RHONDDA'S myrmidon is upon us!" I hissed. "'Tis for your
husband's life, child. Hold the minion of the law in check--attract
him; fascinate him; play him that little thing on the piano--you
know, 'Tum-ti-tum'--while I slope off to the secret chamber, where my
ancestor lay hid before--I mean after--the Battle of Worcester. By the
way, I hope it's been dusted lately? Hush! if he sees us hold secret
parlance I'm lost."