expressed at the same time her contempt for my breach of the conventions and the fact that she was too indifferent to think me worth snubbing.

"Twenty-two," said she.

"Quite," said I.

"HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?"

"WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."

THE CAREER (POSTPONED).

MY DEAR JAMES,—A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs—myself. I discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost decided on "filbert-grower." Had things gone well, by the beginning of June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts.

Now this cannot be. The cog is shown to be indispensable. I must remain a soldier.

Why do they want me, James? I am nothing like a soldier. I cannot click my heels as other men do. I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together. And my word of command! The critics say it is like a cry for help in a London fog.

My haversack contains no trace of any Field-Marshal's baton. You are aware that every private soldier's haversack is issued complete with "Batons, one, Field-Marshal (potential), for the use of." But there is no authority for such an issue for commissioned ranks.

Is it because of my manner with men and my powers as a disciplinarian? I fear not. If a man is brought before me for summary jurisdiction a lump rises in my throat and I want to cry. I am always sure he didn't mean to do it. As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for drunkenness, and I don't feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the hold-all longer than the other when on active service.

When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training Officer; but I hope he was only joking. I am not built for the work. My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute. I hate bending and stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me. I never could squat on my heels like a thingummy.

I might, if allowed, make a hit as Messing Officer. With the aid of my Cookery Course notes I can differentiate between no fewer than thirty-four different types of rissole. Unfortunately we already have a Messing Officer of deadly efficiency. He can classify dripping by instinct. He can memorise at sight all the revolting contents of a swill-tub. My rissole lore is a poor asset in comparison.

No, James, I think I have it. One day you will read that our Armies of Occupation consist of so many hundred thousands of all ranks, including, perhaps, 35,001 officers. That is why they retain me. I shall be the "1" at the end of the thousands. It is your humble servant's function to keep the Armies of Occupation up to strength.

Are we to be robbed of the fruits of victory? The reply is in the negative. Therefore, when next June comes along and you yearn for the early filberts, do not be fretty. Remember that I am gathering in fruits of another and a nobler kind. Yours ever,

WILLIAM.

"SORRY, MUM, BUT I'M AFRAID YOU'LL 'AVE TER STAY UPSTAIRS 'COS THE AFFILIATED SOCIETY OF PIANNER-SHIFTERS 'AS CALLED A GENERAL STRIKE THIS MINNIT."

NEW BREAD FOR OLD.

["New Bread Again"—"Loaves of Any Shape."—Headlines from a Daily Paper.]

The Modern Icarus.

"After an hour's flight over the frozen Conception Bay and the town of St. John's, Mr. Hawker made a perfect landing. He appeared more than over confident of success."—Daily Paper.

"General admiration and sympathy is extended to Mr. Tawker due to his frankness regarding his progress towards making the trans-ocean flight."—Sunday Paper.

We trust our contemporaries are not in a conspiracy to represent the gallant aviator as a hot-air man.

"Presently, when aviation becomes a commonplace, the fares will come down."—Daily Dispatch.

That's just what makes us so nervous.

PEACE TERMS.

BEING SOME LETTERS OF MRS. PARTINGTON TO HER SISTER.

[Conferences between mistresses and servants are being held in various parts of the country to discuss terms of peace in the domestic world.]

Puddleford.

DEAR MOIRA,—We haven't got a servant yet, but we are clutching at a new hope. There is to be a conference here between mistresses and maids, to discuss and readjust the servants' rights and the mistresses' wrongs—or is it the other way about? Anyhow, I shall attend that conference. I shall bribe, plead, consent to any arrangement if I can but net a cook-general. Ten months of doing my own washing-up has brought me to my knees, while Harry says the performance of menial duties has crushed his spirit.

Of course, Harry does make such a fuss of things. You might think, to hear him talk, that the getting up of coal, lighting fires, chopping wood and cleaning flues was the entire work of a household, instead of being mere incidents in the daily routine. If he had to tackle my duties—but men never seem to understand how much there is to do in a house.

I will tell you about the conference when I write again.

Yours always, DODO.

Puddleford.

DEAR MOIRA,—The