“Good Lord,” said Kew, “I wish angels had never been invented.  I never am one, only people always tell me to be one.  I never get officially recognised in heaven.  What is the plan?”

“There is Russell’s car doing nothing,” began Mrs. Gustus.

“Do you mean Christina?” interrupted Kew, shocked at such formality.  “Don’t call her Russell’s car, it sounds so cold.”

“There is Russell’s Christina doing nothing,” compromised Anonyma.  “And petrol isn’t so bad as it will be.  And it’s a beautiful time of year.  And you are not strong yet, really.  And we want Jay back.”

“A procession of facts doesn’t make a plan,” objected Kew.

“It may lead to one, eventually,” said Mrs. Gustus.  “Oh, Kew, I want to go out into the country, I want to thread the pale Spring air, and hear the lambs cry.  I want to brush my face against the grass, and wade in a wave of bluebells.  I want to forget blood and Belgians and kiss Nature.”

“Take a twenty-eight ’bus, and kiss Hampstead Heath,” suggested Kew.  “The Spring has got there all right.”

Anonyma, behind the coffee-pot, was jotting down in a notebook the salient points in her outburst.  She always placed her literary calling first.  And anyway, I should be rather proud if I could talk like that about the Spring without any preparation.

“The idea originally,” began Mr. Russell tentatively, “was not only formed to allow Mrs. Gustus to enjoy the Spring, but also to make you quite strong before you go back to work.  And, again, not only that, but also to try and trace your sister Jay.”

Will you please imagine that continual intercourse with very talkative people had made Mr. Russell an adept at vocal compression.  He had now almost lost the use of his vowels, and if I wrote as he spoke, the effect would be like an advertisement for a housemaid during the shortage of wood-pulp.  I spare you this.

“There are three objections to the plan,” said Kew.  “First, that Anonyma doesn’t really want to kiss the Spring; second, that I don’t really want convalescent treatment; third, that Jay doesn’t really want to be traced.”

When Mrs. Gustus did not know the answer to an objection she left it unanswered.  This is, of course, the simplest way.  She snapped her notebook.

“Oh, Kew,” she said, “you promised you’d be an angel.”  The double row of semi-detached buttons down her breast trembled with eagerness.

“Angeller and angeller,” sighed Kew, “I never committed myself so far.”

“I have a clue with which to trace Jay,” said Mrs. Gustus.  “I had a letter from her this morning.”

Kew was a satisfactory person to surprise.  He is never supercilious.

“You heard from Jay!” he said, in a voice as high as his eyebrows.

The letter which Mrs. Gustus showed to Kew may be quoted here: