gayer and more reckless--they always look as if they were out on a
spree, just waiting to break loose from the long string by which they
are tied, in a huge multi-coloured sunshade, to a stick. There is
something very independent about French balloons--you feel you couldn't
make a pet of one.

But I am telling you things you know already, instead of getting on with
my story.

It was the sort of spring day when all the buds look like feathers and
the sun has been bathing in milk. I was walking down the Champs Elysées,
sniffing secret violets in the air and feeling as joyous as if the world
were entirely full of primroses and larks and light-hearted passers-by
whom I would never see again. In the distance a barrel organ became more
and more distinct and as I drew nearer and the noise grew louder, I
wanted to dance and sing. It was in tune with my mood. A symbol of the
crescendo of living.

And then, in the distance, I saw Cousin Emily crawling towards me like a
black beetle with her half-shut eyes that see everything except beauty
and innocence. Though I avoided her and the day was as lovely as ever, I
had become conscious that the world was inhabited and that there were
people who didn't whistle--or want to whistle--in the streets.

I tried to think of larks and primroses, but my thoughts were dragged
back to thick, half-drawn red curtains, black woolen shawls and silver
photograph frames. Then I had an idea. "I will buy a balloon," I
thought. My spirits rose and my heart leapt. Should I buy a green one
like a bad emerald, or a red one like wine and water, or a thick bright
yellow one? White was charming too, and sailed up into the sky like a