lessons in church.

Nor, again, is it like Who's What, where your imagination is hampered and interfered with by other people butting in to tell you that their recreations are dodging O.B.E.'s and the Income Tax Commission. Publications: Hanwell Men as I knew Them. Club: The Philanderers, and so forth. This cramps your style.

But the book before us now is pregnant with half-hidden romances, which you can weave into any shape that you will, and, what is more, it is written in a noble beautiful English which you have probably never had time to master. I want you to do that now. Suppose, for instance, that in private life your hostess introduced you to Museum 88901 Wilkinson Arthur Jas.—let us say at a Jazz tea. And suppose you were to ask him what his business was, and he told you that he was an Actnr and Srvyr or a Pprhngr. Probably you would be surprised; possibly even you wouldn't believe him. But it's all there in the book.

The type too is diversified by sudden changes which intrigue me greatly. All over London I like to fancy little conversations of this sort are going on:—

Hop 1900 Tomkinson Edward C.— "Hello, is that TOMKINSON EDWARD C.?"

GERRARD 22001 TOMKINSON EDWARD C.—"SPEAKING."

Hop 1900 Tomkinson Edward C.— The Whlsl Slvrsmths?"

GERRARD, ETC.—"DON'T SPLUTTER LIKE THAT. WHO ARE YOU?"

Hop, etc.—"I'm Tomkinson Edward C. too. Little Edward C. of Hop. The Tbcnst. I only wanted to have a talk with you, big brother."

Or sometimes it takes the shape of a novel, starting something like this:—

Kensington 100110 Williams Miss, Tpst., a beautiful but penniless girl, in love with—

Regent 8000 Air Ministry, Ext. 1009, a young aviator who has won the Mlty. Crss. (2 Brs). Their path is crossed by—

City 66666 (12 lines), BLENKINSOP JEHORAM AND CO., Fnncrs. Blenkinsop wishes to marry Miss Williams, on account of a large legacy which he has reason to believe will come to her from

Mayfair 5000 Dashwood-Jones H. See Jones H. Dashwood, and so on.

Sometimes, again, as I plunge still deeper into the fascinating volume, a poem seems to fashion itself and leap from the burning page. Listen.

I'm sorry, reader; I really and truly am. There's my trunk call ... "Hello. No, I can't hear ..."

We must finish it some other time, and you must try READING THE BOOK for yourself srsly please.

"Hello! Hello! Hel-lo!"...

EVOE.

THE VISIONARY TRIUMPH.

"This," he said, "is my favourite dream."

We were discussing our favourite dreams and prepared to listen.

"It is always," he went on, "the same—a cricket match: and the older I get and less able to play cricket, the oftener I have it. It is a real match, you must understand—first-class cricket, with thousands of spectators and excitement; and it is played a very long way from my home. That is an important point, as I will explain.

"I am merely one of the spectators. How long I have been watching I cannot say, but the match is nearing the end and our side—the side which has my sympathies—is nearly all out, but still needs a few