"And they call you Ananias!"
"Well, that beats everything," gasped George, as he dropped clumsily over the stile. "I never tell lies except in the way of business. I always speak the truth in private life."
Days were shortening, so that by the time George had finished his tea, which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles sounded in the street. As life was dull in the bakery, he decided to spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture he had been brought up with. He went and settled himself in an easy chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental work, "A History of Highfield Parish." But reading grew tedious, and the doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous.
Yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an insect killer. He had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp, and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. He rose and went into the kitchen to search for a cork.
The lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. That at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. But, while hurrying back to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. Then a handbag was flung recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the floor. The footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed.
With horrible dread of a possible explosion, George crept towards the missile, and touched it gingerly. It was a neat brown bag, ridiculously small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials N.B.
"That's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to something," he muttered.