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London season was over, and with most admirable industry, now that that garden was empty of flowers, the bees of the world flew in all directions to other gardens, where the autumn flowers bloomed. Cowes was crammed, Carlsbad—this was a medicinal flower—was crammed also. Scotland was beginning to echo with the buzzing, and in a hundred country houses all over the kingdom other bees were resting a moment, cleaning the pollen from their legs, as it were, before they went forth again.

One hot August afternoon a small company of bees were pollen-cleaning at Haworth, talking over, that is to say, the events of the last few months—London's little adventures and ironies. With the exception of Bertie, who was in Scotland with his wife, the party was much the same as that which had sat there just a year ago, before the departure of him and Sybil Massington to America. In fact, the only other change was that the latter was Mrs. Massington no longer. But, just as before, she sat in an extremely comfortable chair on the lawn, with Charlie by her side, and Ginger, his hat over his face, lying on the grass in front of them. As before, also, he was employed in editing the history of the world, and making parenthetical prophecies for the future.

he was saying, the last year, I am happy to inform you, shows great progress. The Palmerization of England is perhaps the most