"Oh," said the one who was walking by my side, regarding my garments
with engaging attention, and at the same time appearing to regain an
unruffled speech as though the other had been an assumed device, "I
understand--the Blue Sky Hotel. Well, I've stayed there once or twice
myself. A bit down on your uppers, eh?"

"Assuredly this person may perchance lay his upper parts down for a
short space of time," I admitted, when I had traced out the symbolism
of the words. "As it is humanely written in The Books, 'Sleep and
suicide are the free refuges equally of the innocent and the guilty.'"

"Oh, come now, don't," exclaimed the energetic person, striking
himself together by means of his two hands. "It's sinful to talk about
suicide the day before bank holiday. Why, my only Somali warrior has
vamoosed with his full make-up, and the Magnetic Girl too, and I never
thought of suicide--only whether to turn my old woman into a Veiled
Beauty of the Harem or a Hairy Lama from Tibet."

Not absolutely grasping the emergency, yet in a spirit of inoffensive
cordiality I remarked that the alternative was insufferably
perplexing, while he continued.

"Then I spotted you, and in a flash I got an idea that ought to take
and turn out really great if you'll come in. Now follow this:
Missionary's tent in the wilds of Pekin. Domestic interior by
lamp-light. Missionary (me) reading evening paper; missionary's wife
(the missus) making tea, and between times singing to keep the small
pet goat quiet (small goat, a pillow, horsecloth, and
pocket-handkerchief). Breaks down singing, sobs, and says she feels a
strange all-over presentiment. Missionary admits being a bit fluffed