“And anyway,” I argued, “Mr. Lloyd George is not to blame.  The note does not bear his signature, but that of Sir John Bradbury.  And a fine bold signature it is—­why, it’s dirt-cheap for the lesson in handwriting alone.”

She did not appreciate that, because hers is a small scrabbed writing.  But I continued mercilessly—­

“I bet he doesn’t bite his lips when he’s signing his name.”

“Extremely bad writing, I should call it,” she retorted.  “Look, you cannot tell where the ‘u’ ends and the ‘r’ begins.”

“But aside from that,” I resumed (I was very proud of this expression, having picked it up from President Wilson)—­“aside from that, turn the note over, feast your eyes on the picture of the Houses of Parliament.  It too is thrown in for nothing.  This at least ought to appeal to you, with your enthusiasm for Gothic architecture.”

If looks could annihilate, that would have been my last boiled egg.

“You think yourself very clever,” she said, “and you are supposed to understand all about money matters.  Surely you know of a bank where I can take these wretched notes and get gold instead, the good old English gold that was worth its face-value all the world over?”

I did not know she could be so eloquent.  I rose and went to the window.  It was a noble morning.

“Yes,” I said after a little reflection, “put on your best hat and collect your paper-money.  But try and pack it all into the kit-bag if you possibly can.” (She winced a little.) “I know a bank where you will be able to get all the gold you want....”
       * * * * *
Shoulder to shoulder we fought the good fight for the motor-bus.

“Two to the Bank,” I gasped.

But it was at Charing Cross station I made her descend.  She looked extraordinarily mystified, and I explained that the Bank’s country branches are the only ones where gold is still to be had.
       * * * * *
She and an empty milk-can and I were all that got out at the little station in the hills.  However, a cuckoo introduced himself boldly by name.  He seemed so near he might have been in the booking-office.  But the booking-office was deserted.

“There can’t possibly be a bank in this out-of-the-world place,” she protested.

“Patience,” I replied, leading her down a steep path between high thick hedges to a small gateway.  Through this we went, and I heard her draw in her breath.

From our feet, as it seemed, up to the blue sky itself, one golden glowing bank of buttercups and cowslips... and cowslips.  It was almost like trying to gaze at the noonday sun.

“There,” I crowed, “you will be able to get all the gold you want.  Did I not say, ’I know a bank’?”

She did a curious thing.  She put her arms round my neck and kissed me.

“Dear old Mr. Sententious,” said she, “did you think you could take me in?  I knew my Midsummer Night’s Dream by heart while you were still discovering ’the-hog-is-in-the-pit’!” And she sang quite softly:—­