Chapter THE LAST

IN WHICH FAREWELL IS SAID TO PRIMROSE TERRACE, AND THE EARTH FINDS A NEW AXIS

I write these final words in another house, not too far from Primrose Terrace and our dear Lacey and the Zoo; a house with its own garden. For Lavender could not flourish in the Misses Packers' restricted space, and Lavender is, of course, the principal person to consider. And since it is a house with a garden, and all our own, it follows (in London) that we have no neighbours, and therefore, not having neighbours any more to describe, there is nothing to do but to take my novelist friend's best piece of advice.

Finding the right house was as difficult as ever it is, and was attended by the usual rages as we gazed upon ideal residences already selfishly occupied by other persons; more difficult, indeed, since it was to be the theatre of the dramas of Lavender's infancy, childhood, girlhood, and young womanhood. No joke selecting an historic abode of this kind.

Yet here we are, on our first evening, and Lavender (whose home it so pre-eminently is) has just consented to fall asleep.

The house--but, excuse me, I feel certain I heard her cry.

THE END