toilette is finished off by a pair of _enthralling_ little hob-nailed
boots!) and I'm holding a rake and a hoe and a digging-fork in one
hand and a garden-hose in the other; there's a wheel-barrow beside me,
and I'm looking at the potato-plants with the _true_ Allotment smile,
my dearest. I sent a copy of this picky to Norty, and under it I wrote
those famous last words of some celebrated Frenchman (I forget whether
it was MOLIÈRE or MIRABEAU or NAPOLEON): "_Je vais chercher un grand
peut-être!_"

Wee-Wee is frightfully worried about Bo-Bo being so overworked. He
used to be at the head of the Department for Telling People What to
Do, and he and his five hundred assistants were worked half dead;
and _now_ he's at the head of a still newer department, the one for
Telling People What They're _Not_ to Do, and, though he's eight
hundred clerks to help him, Wee-Wee says the strain is too great for
words. He goes to Whitehall at ten every day and comes back at three!
And then he has the Long-Ago treatment that's being used so much now
for war-frayed nerves. The idea is to get people as far away from the
present as poss. So when Bo-Bo comes in from Whitehall he lies down on
a fearful old worm-eaten oak settle in a dim room hung with moth-eaten
tapestry, and Wee-Wee reads CHAUCER to him, and sings ghastly little
folk-songs, accompanying herself on a thing called a _crwth_--(it's a
tremendously primitive sort of harp, but I can't believe that even a
_crwth_ meant to make such a horrible noise as Wee-Wee makes on it!).
Myself, I don't consider Bo-Bo a bit the better for the Long-Ago
treatment, and there's certainly a wild look in his eyes that wasn't
there before!

_M'amie_, would you like to hear the simply _odious_ storyette of
Somebody's Cousin? Well, so you shall. Somebody is by way of being an