"Good-bye, Musette," he said simply. "I am several kinds of a blackguard, and I don't think it's very probable that we shall ever see each other again, but at all events I didn't ask you to marry me."
Musette smiled.
"I think, Tony," she said, "that you are the only man who has ever paid me a compliment that I care about."
Then, as Tony turned to go, she got up from her chair and stood in front of him, with her hands behind her back.
"And I am sure, Tony," she added calmly, "that you are the only man I know who would never bore me."
For a second Tony hesitated. Then, taking her by the shoulders, cool, fragrant, and smiling, he drew her into his arms.
And on this occasion Tony's conscience seemed quite satisfied.
"Squarky-woo"
Once upon a time there was a little mouse called Squarky-woo, who lived behind the wainscoting in a house in Berkeley Square. His mother, who lived with him, was very old, and very grey, and very wise. He called her Mammy-ana, partly from affection and partly because it was her name. She was a widow, Squarky-woo's father having met with a tabby catastrophe in the kitchen, which had abruptly terminated his stainless career in the very flower of mousehood. It had been a cruel blow to Mammy-ana, who had loved him dearly, and would not have lost him for all the cheese in Cheddar. She had dragged his remains from the dust-heap on to which they had been thrown, and lovingly interred them beneath the dining-room floor, erecting over his grave the simple and touching memorial: