There was a fierce fight which raged round the old clay hut in the wattles. The Greeks shouted "[Greek: Tuptô tuptomai]" The Serbs, for reasons into which I need not enter, were inarticulate with rage. With the French and British I had, of course, no difficulty, and the Bulgars (fortunately) were content with hoarse guttural noises. It was a fierce fight while it lasted, and I was sorry when it was over, because for the first time I began to feel at home with my story. I need not say that many a Bulgar had licked the wattles before I had finished.
Unfortunately something else happened before I had finished.
"What do you think?" cried Celia, bursting into my room one evening, just when I was wondering whether my readers would expect to know more of the heroine's native costume than that it was "simple yet becoming."
"Wait a moment," I said.
"It's too good to wait," said Celia excitedly. "Bulgaria has surrendered."
Celia may be a good patriot, but she lacks the artistic temperament.
"Oh, has she?" I said bitterly. "Then she's jolly well spoilt my story."
"The one about the wattles?"
"Yes."
"Tut-tuttles," said Celia frivolously.