fairy stories, on the other was Alice in conversation with Gryphon and Mockturtle, the episode looking distressingly stiff and meaningless in its sculptured form.  Two other spaces had been cleared in the neighbouring turf, evidently for the reception of further statue groups, which Yeovil mentally assigned to Struwelpeter and Little Lord Fauntleroy.

“German middle-class taste,” he commented, “but in this matter we certainly gave them a lead.  I suppose the idea is that childish fancy is dead and that it is only decent to erect some sort of memorial to it.”

The day was growing hotter, and the Park had ceased to seem a desirable place to loiter in.  Yeovil turned his steps homeward, passing on his way the bandstand with its surrounding acreage of tables.  It was now nearly one o’clock, and luncheon parties were beginning to assemble under the awnings of the restaurant.  Lighter refreshments, in the shape of sausages and potato salads, were being carried out by scurrying waiters to the drinkers of lager beer at the small tables.  A park orchestra, in brilliant trappings, had taken the place of the military band.  As Yeovil passed the musicians launched out into the tune which the doctor had truly predicted he would hear to repletion before he had been many days in London; the “National Anthem of the fait accompli.”