million a week at the Palliseum. Makes footprints there twice
daily in real snow. The audience are invited to come and tread
in them. They do, too, like anything. Happily, Wenceslas is
famed for the size of his feet. But you can't expect a man to
leave- "

"But it can't go on like this," said Daphne

"My dear, English weather is like your dear self- capable of
anything. Be thankful that we have only snow.

If it occurred to it to rain icebergs, so that we were compelled
willy or even nilly to give up sleeping out of doors, it would do
so. Well, I'm tired. What about turning out, eh? Light the
lanthorn, Jonah, and give me my dressing-gown."

"If you want to make me really ill," said Daphne, "you'll go on
talking about bathing and sleeping out of doors.

"Berry laughed a fat laugh. "My dear," he explained, "I was only
joking."

We were all housed together in an old, old country inn, the inn
of Fallow, which village lies sleeping at the foot of the
Cotswold Hills. We knew the place well. Few stones of it had
been set one upon the other less than three hundred years ago,
and, summer and winter alike, it was a spot of great beauty
-comparatively little known, too, and far enough from London to
escape most tourists. The inn itself had sheltered Cromwell, and
before his time better men than he had warmed themselves at the