Whatever the papers say, it was the hottest afternoon of the year. At
six-thirty I had just finished dressing after my third cold bath since
lunch, when Celia tapped on the door.
"I want you to do something for me," she said. "It's a shame to ask
you on a day like this."
"It _is_ rather a shame," I agreed, "but I can always refuse."
"Oh, but you mustn't. We haven't got any ice, and the Thompsons are
coming to dinner. Do you think you could go and buy three pennyworth?
Jane's busy, and I'm busy, and----"
"And I'm busy," I said, opening and shutting a drawer with great
rapidity.
"Just three pennyworth," she pleaded. "Nice cool ice. Think of sliding
home on it."
Well, of course it had to be done. I took my hat and staggered out. On
an ordinary cool day it is about half-a-mile to the fishmonger; to-day
it was about two miles-and-a-quarter. I arrived exhausted, and with
only just strength enough to kneel down and press my forehead against
the large block of ice in the middle of the shop, round which the
lobsters nestled.
"Here, you mustn't do that," said the fishmonger, waving me away.