"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas sullenly.

"But just think what a resource they are," exclaimed the author, "on long
winter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle--a
thing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a house-
party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and insufferably
dull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you had letters to
write, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for three-and-ninepence
you could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady Cullumpton and her
set. No one ought to travel without one or two of my novels in their
luggage as a stand-by. A friend of mine said only the other day that he
would as soon think of going into the tropics without quinine as of going
on a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in his kit-bag. Perhaps
sensation is more in your line. I wonder if I've got a copy of _The
Python's Kiss_."

Caiaphas did not wait to be tempted with selections from that thrilling
work of fiction. With a muttered remark about having no time to waste on
monkey-talk, he gathered up his slighted volume and departed. He made no
audible reply to Mellowkent's cheerful "Good morning," but the latter
fancied that a look of respectful hatred flickered in the cold grey eyes.




THE HEDGEHOG


A "Mixed Double" of young people were contesting a game of lawn tennis at
the Rectory garden party; for the past five-and-twenty years at least