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“Anyhow,” I added indignantly a minute later, “I swear I’m going somehow.”

* * * * *

“Hallo,” I said cheerfully, as I ran into Her Majesty in Piccadilly. “I’ve just been ordering–that is to say, I’ve been going–I mean I’m just going to—- Let’s see, it’s next week, isn’t it?”

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless–not at all my idea of the character.

“Now then,” she said at last, “I am going to take you in hand. Will you trust yourself entirely to me?”

“To the death, Your Majesty. I’m sickening for something as it is.”

“How tall are you?”

“Oh, more than that,” I said quickly. “Gents’ large medium, I am.”

“Then I’ll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There’s no need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher.”

“Quite–blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the neck at tenpence, madam, if you’ll wait a moment while I sharpen the knife. Let’s see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother, they’ve forgotten the strop.”

“Well, it may not be a butcher,” said Elizabeth; “it depends what they’ve got.”

* * * * *

That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had hardly any breakfast; simply couldn’t look a poached in the yolk. A day on the sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o’clock was my programme. And then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I remembered that the dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps dressed soberly as a black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour or two … and—-

Help!

A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and–no, it’s not an eider-down, it’s a coat.

A yellow–Pink br—-

I am going as Joseph.

I am going as a humming bird.

I am going–yes, that’s it, I am going back to bed.