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“Sorry!” we apologized as we got back on to our hands and knees.

Thomas went on blowing.

“Where’s my feather?” I said.

Thomas was now two yards ahead, blowing like anything. A terrible suspicion darted through my mind.

“Thomas,” I said, “you’ve got my feather.”

He made no answer. I scrambled after him.

“That’s Percy,” I said. “I should know him anywhere. You’re blowing Percy. It’s very bad form to blow another man’s feather. If it got about, you would be cut by the county. Give me back my feather, Thomas.”

“How do you know it’s your feather?” he said truculently. “Feathers are just alike.”

“How do I know?” I asked in amazement. “A feather that I’ve brought up from the egg? Of course I know Percy.” I leant down to him. “P–percy,” I whispered. He darted forward a good six inches. “You see,” I said, “he knows his name.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Thomas, “his name’s P–paul. Look, I’ll show you.”

“You needn’t bother, Thomas,” I said hastily. “This is mere trifling. I know that’s my feather. I remember his profile distinctly.”

“Then where’s mine?”

“How do I know? You may have swallowed it. Go away and leave Percy and me to ourselves. You’re only spoiling the knees of your trousers by staying here.”

“Paul and I—-” began Thomas.

He was interrupted by a burst of applause. Dahlia had cajoled her feather over the line first. Thomas rose and brushed himself. “You can ‘ave him,” he said.

“There!” I said, as I picked Percy up and placed him reverently in my waistcoat pocket. “That shows that he was mine. If he had been your own little Paul you would have loved him even in defeat. Oh, musical chairs now? Right-o.” And at the President’s touch I retired from the arena.

We had not entered for musical chairs. Personally I should have liked to, but it was felt that, if none of us did, then it would be more easy to stop Simpson doing so. For at musical chairs Simpson is–I am afraid there is only one word for it; it is a word that I hesitate to use, but the truth must prevail–Simpson is rough. He lets himself go. He plays all he knows. Whenever I take Simpson out anywhere I always whisper to my hostess, “Not musical chairs.”

The last event of the evening was the hat-making competition. Each man of us was provided with five large sheets of coloured crinkly paper, a packet of pins, a pair of scissors, and a lady opposite to him.

“Have you any plans at all?” asked Myra.

“Heaps. Tell me, what sort of hat would you like? Something for the Park?” I doubled up a piece of blue paper and looked at it. “You know, if this is a success, Myra, I shall often make your hats for you.”

Five minutes later I had what I believe is called a “foundation.” Anyhow, it was something for Myra to put her head into.

“Our very latest Bond Street model,” said Myra. “Only fifteen guineas–or three-and-ninepence if you buy it at our other establishment in Battersea.”

“Now then, I can get going,” I said, and I began to cut out a white feather. “Yes, your ladyship, this is from the genuine bird on our own ostrich farm in the Fulham Road. Plucked while the ingenuous biped had its head in the sand. I shall put that round the brim,” and I pinned it round.

“What about a few roses?” said Myra, fingering the red paper.

“The roses are going there on the right.” I pinned them on. “And a humming-bird and some violets next to them…. I say, I’ve got a lot of paper over. What about a nice piece of cabbage … there … and a bunch of asparagus … and some tomatoes and a seagull’s wing on the left. The back still looks rather bare–let’s have some poppies.”

“There’s only three minutes more,” said Myra, “and you haven’t used all the paper yet.”

“I’ve got about one William Allan Richardson and a couple of canaries over,” I said, after examining my stock. “Let’s put it inside as lining. There, Myra, my dear, I’m proud of you. I always say that in a nice quiet hat nobody looks prettier than you.”

“Time!” said the President.

Anxious matrons prowled round us.

“We don’t know any of the judges,” I whispered. “This isn’t fair.”

The matrons conferred with the President. He cleared his throat. “The first prize,” he said, “goes to—-“

But I had swooned.

. . . . .

“Well,” said Archie, “the Rabbits return to England with two cups won on the snowfields of Switzerland.”

“Nobody need know,” said Myra, “which winter-sport they were won at.”

“Unless I have ‘Ski-ing, First Prize’ engraved on mine,” I said, “as I had rather intended.”

“Then I shall have ‘Figure-Skating’ on mine,” said Dahlia.

“Two cups,” reflected Archie, “and Thomas engaged to three charming girls. I think it has been worth it, you know.”