Mr. REA, as the father, was of course competent, but surely a little overplacid throughout.  He accepted the blow of his daughter’s dishonour with scarcely a sign that submission caused him any serious pang—­a seeming indifference shared by Miss MAIRE O’NEILL (Hannah’s mother), who appeared quite untroubled a few minutes after the harrowing relation, and indeed seemed throughout to be playing too easily.  Mr. RAYMOND VALENTINE had a “fat” part as the villain, and well and fatly he played it.

I realise more than ever the difficulties of an Irish Settlement.

T.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR ANIMAL ARTIST, AFTER A HARD DAY AT THE ZOO, GOES HOME IN A NON-SMOKER AND FALLS ASLEEP.]

[Illustration:  HE SLEEPS SO SOUNDLY THAT THE ENTRY OF A BIG-GAME HUNTER’S FAMILY FAILS TO DISTURB HIM.]

[Illustration:  THE ROAR OF A PASSING TRAIN FITS IN WITH HIS DREAMS OF WILD ANIMALS, AND—­HE WAKES!]

* * * * *

FAME.

For a long time past I had felt that something ought to be done about it, and then one evening as I opened my paper in the Tube I came suddenly upon the following paragraph:—­

“Lunching yesterday with Jack Poppington at the Bitz, where, by the way, M. Caramel treated us to a superbly priceless mousse a la Canadienne, he told me that his Little Pests is selling like wildfire and proving a real bonanza to the lucky publishers, Messrs. Painter and Lilley.  Had a pleasant chat with him about old times in the Army Pay Corps, in which we served together for nearly sixteen months during one of the hottest periods of hostilities ‘out yonder.’  More famous amongst the general public for his black ribboned tortoiseshell monocle and invariable presence at all truly semi-smart Bohemian functions, Poppington keeps a brindled bulldog, grows primulas and is, of course, known to a select circle as the energetic Organising Secretary of the North Battersea Entomological Society.”

The letterpress which I have quoted above was headed “Popular Pap” and formed a kind of frame for a photograph of Mr. Poppington, which seemed to show that his luncheon at the Bitz had not really agreed with him after all, and at the bottom of the column I noted the familiar signature of “Marchand du Beurre.”

As usual when I read paragraphs of this kind I first of all blushed guiltily and glanced round to see whether anyone had noticed how eagerly I was drinking it all in.  Then I put on the faint superior smile of recognition which I felt that the situation obviously demanded.  Good old Poppington!  One of the best.  What recollections it stirred! Marchand and he and I—­

When I left the Tube I carefully crumpled the paper up and threw it away, and in the middle of dinner I took care to remark casually to Araminta, “By the way, I suppose you put Little Pests on the library list?”