reception of further statue groups, which Yeovil mentally assigned to
Struwelpeter and Little Lord Fauntleroy.

"German middle-class taste," he commented, "but in this matter we
certainly gave them a lead. I suppose the idea is that childish fancy is
dead and that it is only decent to erect some sort of memorial to it."

The day was growing hotter, and the Park had ceased to seem a desirable
place to loiter in. Yeovil turned his steps homeward, passing on his way
the bandstand with its surrounding acreage of tables. It was now nearly
one o'clock, and luncheon parties were beginning to assemble under the
awnings of the restaurant. Lighter refreshments, in the shape of
sausages and potato salads, were being carried out by scurrying waiters
to the drinkers of lager beer at the small tables. A park orchestra, in
brilliant trappings, had taken the place of the military band. As Yeovil
passed the musicians launched out into the tune which the doctor had
truly predicted he would hear to repletion before he had been many days
in London; the "National Anthem of the fait accompli."




CHAPTER V: L'ART D'ETRE COUSINE


Joan Mardle had reached forty in the leisurely untroubled fashion of a
woman who intends to be comely and attractive at fifty. She cultivated a
jovial, almost joyous manner, with a top-dressing of hearty good will and
good nature which disarmed strangers and recent acquaintances; on getting
to know her better they hastily re-armed themselves. Some one had once