"I wonder," said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet."

I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand.

"If that's all you've got to say--"

"But it isn't."

She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my long
oak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely in
my chair.

"Then, what is it?" I asked.

"Have you read the paper this morning?"

"I've glanced through the _Times_," said I.

She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a
bed-spread or two--("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_,"
said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shed
Vallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until she
had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a
mangled sheet before my eyes.

"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.