"'You seemed to fall into it so naturally,'" I quoted in a shaky voice.
"Darling," sobbed Cecilia, "I am trying—please—if only you would take that piece of soot off your nose—" She dabbed her eyes and wept helplessly.
John rubbed his nose quickly and walked to the door.
"If you want my opinion of dancing," he said bitterly, "I think it's a low pagan habit."
"'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,'" sang Margery.
"Bah!" said John, and banged the door.
THE NEW UTOPIA.
[Suggested by Mr. J. H. Thomas's book, just out, with a Red Flag on the wrapper.]
O England, with what joy I hail