dashing out my brains on the lintels because a five-foot man has seen fit to make the door- ways five feet one.”
“Are there no tucks or hems in your house?” asked Miss Berrith.
I looked at her inquiringly.
“Nothing to let out,” she explained, “in case — in case you should happen to grow, Mr. Sands?”
“I am building my bungalow to live in, not to let out,” I replied, with some humour, I fancy. “And I shall be thirty on my next birthday, Miss Berrith. Do you think there is much chance of my growing?”
“Let us hope for the best,” she answered quietly.
Now that is what I mean by blowing on the mirror.
It was when the plasterers came upon the scene that the interior of my bungalow began to assume a certain dignity. A plasterer, it appears, is nothing more than a mason in
