have spelt it c-i-t-e. Can't see what they want the g-h for. But that's what he'd do anyhow—look out for a site for his garden, the very next day."

"And if you were shipwrecked with him," I asked, "what would you do?"

"Would there be any animals on the island?" she inquired.

"Most likely—little monkeys, parrots."

"Little monkeys! I should be all right. Besides, there's Cruikshank. When he's making a garden he's just too sweet for anything. He talks about it as if he was building a city, and we make out where all the flowers are going to live. It's like being God in little—making the whole world over again."

"He described it like that to me once."

"He always feels it like that—so do I."

I turned away, letting my eyes set out to that far line of sky and sea, for again I felt the sense of covetousness stealing over me. It was just the same as when I had envied my electrician and his little nursery maid. Now I was envying Cruikshank and his Bellwattle, grudging them nothing it is true, yet wishing I had won their secret of things, that I could make the magic garden of contentment as undoubtedly as had they.

"Do you know," she said, suddenly, sitting up as she spoke and resting her chin upon her knees. "Do you know I believe London is not really a place to be happy in. I don't know how to explain it, but I know what I mean. I always lived in London, you know, until we married. I was born in London."

"And you were never happy?"

"Oh—I've had the jolliest times imaginable—splendid times."

"Well—isn't that being happy?" said I.

She paused for just a moment and then, with an emphatic shake of her head, she said "No!"

"Could they really have been splendid times?"

"Yes—yes—they were splendid. I shall never have times like them again. They made me forget everything. Oh, why is it so difficult to explain? But it is that—it's just—" She stumbled, piteously at a loss for words. It was all there within her, bubbling to her very lips, dancing in her eyes. Only the words were wanting, and in the need of them her forehead wrinkled, all her features screwed themselves up into a comical expression of pain. It was not really comical. 

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