of independent means. Allow me to remind you that you are not. Also that your father and I are unable and unwilling to bear the expenses of two establishments. Please consider the matter closed."

She swept from the room. Mary whistled softly to herself, then she walked to the desk and wrote a letter.

"... And that's that," she finished. "So now to business. I will send you some articles at the end of the week, and for goodness' sake be quick, because I can't stand this much longer."

When she had posted it she retired to her room and was no more seen till dinner.

They were bright articles and, like measle-spots, they appeared rapidly after ten days or a fortnight; unlike measles they seemed to be permanent. They dealt irreverently with Mudford society, draped in a thin veil of some alias material, and they signed themselves "Blight."

"Disgraceful!" snorted Colonel Martin, throwing one crumpled newspaper after another into the waste-paper basket. "Ought to be publicly burned! As if it weren't enough to find the beastly things all over the Club, without being pestered with them at home, making fun of the best people in Mudford. Bolshevism! Fellow ought to be shot! Wish I knew who he was and I'd do it myself. I will not have another word of this poisonous stuff in my house. D'you hear, Gertrude?"

Mrs. Martin trailed into the hall in search of her sunshade.

"It's so difficult," she complained en route, "to know what paper he's coming out in next and stop it in time;" and she wandered mournfully into the garden.

"Mary," she sighed, sinking into a chair on the lawn, "have you noticed anything peculiar in the way people speak to us lately? Of course it may be only my imagination, and yet," she hesitated, "Admiral and Lady Rogers were quite—quite formal to me yesterday."

Mary balanced her tennis racquet on her outstretched hand and laughed. "It's the local Blight, I suppose. You and Father are about the only people left who haven't been withered yet, and the others are bound to think there's something suspicious about you. Stupid of me—I didn't think of that. I'm sorry."

Her mother started. "What do you mean?" she inquired sharply.

Mary rose languidly. "However," she added graciously, "I will put that right for you next week. I have several sketches that will do."

Mrs. Martin's face registered inquiry, incredulity, indignation and apoplexy in chronological order; then the garden gate clicked and a young man walked across the lawn. Mary looked down at her mother and spoke quietly.

"I think it is time you knew that I wrote those articles. One writes about what one sees, and as long as I remain here I shall see Mudford."

"Pardon me," began the young man, arriving, "but is this Colonel Martin's house?"

Mrs. Martin made no effort to reply and Mary reassured him.

"It's like this," he continued frankly. "I'm representing The Daily Rebel, and I'm awfully anxious to get certain information for my paper. I was speaking to Admiral Rogers just now and he told me I should probably get it here if I tried. He said he could only give me a guess himself and I had better come to headquarters. Madam," he bowed towards Mrs. Martin, "will you kindly tell me if you are the famous ..."

Here Mary interposed. "My mother," she said serenely, "is not the Mudford Blight. Nor is my father."

The young man wheeled on her.

"Then you ...?" he queried.

Mary hesitated, questioning her mother with a glance.

"My daughter," replied Mrs. Martin in a strangled voice, "cannot possibly be the person you seek since she is not a Mudford resident. She lives in London and is only staying here till to-morrow—at the latest."

Mary smiled radiantly and sent a wire later in the afternoon.

Young Miner's Mother. "I can't do nothink wiv our 'Erbert since 'e voted for the strike. Wen I ask 'im to run a errand 'e says it isn't a man's job."

The Gynecophobe.

"While crossing a field near Berwick a gamekeeper noticed a dear coming in his direction and he took cover in a hayrick."—Scotch Paper.

"Parlourmaid Wanted, afternoons, 2-6.30, galvanised iron, 50 ft. to 140 ft. long x 21 ft."—Local Paper.

It needs a girl with an iron constitution to support such a frame.

"For Sale, Clergyman's Grey Costume, latest style; also Jumper, never worn."—Irish Paper.

The reverend gentleman appears to have jibbed at the jumper.

Village Umpire (advancing down pitch, after resisting two appeals for l.b.w.). "You better take a fresh middle, Jarge, 'cos if 'e 'its 'ee again in the zame place I shall 'ave to give 'ee out."

MOVEMENT IN THE MONEY MARKET.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I have been spending my holiday at a watering place, a place that fully deserves its epithet. My London daily has been my only entertainment, and towards the evening hours I have found myself wandering about the less familiar beats of it. I have become an intimate of the City Editor, and I hasten to inform you, Mr. Punch, that he has introduced me to a side of the Gay Life which I have been missing all these years. I will set out the tale of it, even at the risk of making your readers blush.

It appears that recently a feeling spread in the Market (and that all these goings-on should take place in a market adds, in my view, to their curiousness) that a crisis had been reached in monetary restrictions and things might be eased a bit. Apparently there is a circle of people in the know, and by them it was immediately appreciated what this "relaxation" implied. The first overt sign of something doing was a "heavy demand for money," a need which I too, for all my quiet domesticity, have felt from time to time. No doubt the fast City set were filling their pockets before commencing a course of "relaxation." The next development was that the Market was approached from all sides with "applications for accommodation." I can picture the merry parties rolling up in their thousands, booking every available house, flat or room, and even paying very fancy prices for the hire of a booth for a house-party.

It may give you some idea of the nature of their "relaxation" when I say that our old friend the Bank of England seems to have so far forgotten herself as to start making advances to the Government. My City Editor, who is possibly a family man, cannot bring himself to give details; he just states the fact, merely adding the significant comment that "the usual reserve of the Bank is rapidly disappearing." The effect of this example is appearing in the most respectable quarters. "All attempts are now failing," he reports, for example, "to keep the Fiduciary Issue within limits." Reluctantly he mentions a "considerably freer tendency in Discount circles."

Further he records a tendency to over-indulgence in feasting. I read of figures (I hardly like to quote this bit) becoming "improperly inflated." Will you believe me when I add that a section of those participating in the beano, whose one fear was, apparently, that it would all end only too soon, actually were heard expressing the apprehension, to quote verbatim, "that they would deflate too