CHAPTER I

fthehaythatwascutyesterday—Isupposeforrabbitsorsomething,asshekeptonsmellingit.Theairhereisdelicious.LateronIheardthenoiseofcroquetballs,andlookedoutagain,anditwasCharlesWilcoxpractisingtheyarekeenonallgames.Presentlyhestartedsneezingandhadtostop.ThenIhearmoreclicketing,anditisMr.Wilcoxpractising,andthen,‘a-tissue,a-tissue’:hehastostoptoo.ThenEviecomesout,anddoessomecalisthenicexercisesonamachinethatistackedontoagreen-gage-tree—theyputeverythingtouse—andthenshesays‘a-tissue,’andinshegoes.AndfinallyMrs.Wilcoxreappears,trail,trail,stillsmellinghayandlookingattheflowers.Iinflictallthisonyoubecauseonceyousaidthatlifeissometimeslifeandsometimesonlyadrama,andonemustlearntodistinguishtotherfromwhich,anduptonowIhavealwaysputthatdownas‘Meg’sclevernonsense.’Butthismorning,itreallydoesseemnotlifebutaplay,anditdidamusemeenormouslytowatchtheW’s.NowMrs.Wilcoxhascomein. “Iamgoingtowear[omission].LastnightMrs.Wilcoxworean[omission],andEvie[omission].Soitisn’texactlyago-as-you-pleaseplace,andifyoushutyoureyesitstillse