said Phyllis sternly. "Daddy isn't ever wrong."

"So he's risen from his bar to be a sergeant," added Lillah, with the air of one finishing a story with a moral.

I'm afraid I chuckled. It was in very bad taste, of course, but I couldn't help it. I suppose George is one of the most egregious Micawbers of the English Bar, whereas I—— why, I remember noticing a brief on the mantelpiece in my chambers only last month.

"Poor Uncle James," said Phyllis in her best drawing-room tones, "perhaps if you tried very hard——"

They had mistaken my laughter for that bitter disappointed kind you get in the theatres.

"I know," said Lillah; "we'll play Germans, and Uncle James can pretend he's a sergeant."

Yes, they were sorry for me. The table was pushed into the window and became a waterworks of importance.

The invidious part of the alien enemy fell to Lillah. It was admitted that she could glare best. "Besides," said Phyllis, "Lillah can make growly noises come up from her tummy."

The complete Hun, as you perceive.

Phyllis became a "special," while I was her sergeant, the star part of the piece. But the show was a frost, though Lillah gave an excellent imitation, with the aid of a toy spider, of a Hun inserting bacilli into the nation's aqua pura. Yes, I'm afraid I was the failure. I couldn't get to grips with my part, and the whole thing was so obviously a charity performance, with Phyllis ordering herself sternly about to try and help me through.

We were halfway through the second house when a well-known step was heard on the stairs.

Lillah turned, her eyes ablaze with worship. Phyllis trembled with excitement. As I sat down I couldn't help thinking that we grown-ups are just a little absurd. There is more than one thinks in the relativity of things.

Adoration? George was never going to get anything like it again in this world. My mind mused on ambition. Why, the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself——

The door-handle turned and I heard the small voice of Phyllis in my ear.

"Mummie says," she whispered, "we can't all be great."

Nice little maid!

Then we all lined up to receive the Sergeant.

Mother. "No, Betty darling, I can't button your boots for you. Now you have a little sister you must learn to do things for yourself."

Betty. "Shall I always have to do fings for myself?"

Mother. "Yes, darling."

Betty. "Then I don't fink I shall like life."

"turkish communiqué.

Constantinople, Saturday.—On the Canadian front there were outpost duels and local fighting at several points. These skirmishes are still going on."—Evening Paper.

Forthcoming volume by Sir Max Aitken—Canada in Turkey.

From a description of a new enemy aeroplane:—

"The whole machine is armoured, and the supper part is shaped like a reversed roof." Provincial Paper.

Trust the Germans for looking after the commissariat.

AN EMBARGO ON INK.

Great Public Meeting.

Mr. Runciman, President of the Board of Trade, having stated that the Government was following up its restrictions on the importation of paper by drastic new rules concerning our supplies of ink, a public meeting of protest was immediately called. Mr. T. P. O'Notor, M.P., took the chair, and he was supported by many of the most illustrious ink-men of the day.

The Chairman, having first read a number of letters apologising for absence, one of which was, of course, from Lord Southbluff, who specialises in this epistolary form, proceeded to pour scorn on the Board of Trade's decision. How can the Board of Trade, he asked pointedly, know its business as well as we do? If it hopes, by curtailing the supplies of ink that come to England, to make room for the more important necessaries of life, it is mistaken. There is nothing more important than ink. (Cheers.) Without ink what are we? (A voice: "Not much.") Without ink, how can advertisements be written? (Cries of "Shame!") Among all forms of human endeavour none was nobler than putting one word after another. (Applause.) That is what Shakspeare did. (Hear, hear.) Always with the assistance of ink. (Cheers.) And what would England be like without Shakspeare? (Renewed cheers.) Had Mr. Runciman thought of that? He (the speaker) would venture to say he had not. In any case ink must be saved. (Loud applause.)

Mr. Harry Austinson, Editor of The English Revue, rose to protest against the Board of Trade action. To put an embargo upon ink was, he held, nothing less than an outrage. Ink was the life-blood of British liberty, and he for one would never hesitate to spill the last drop, either in his own select periodical or in a Sunday paper for the masses. The mere fact that the feeling against ink was inaugurated by a Member of the Government automatically proved it wrong. No good could come from such a corrupt agglomeration of salary-seekers as the Coalition Ministry. Speaking as one who knew Germany from within, he would say that to put any obstacle in the way of the public expression of opinion in England was to help the foe. (Hear, hear.)

Mr. Bernold Pennit said that the Government's action paralysed him. For years he had been in the habit of writing his ten thousand words a day. It did not much matter what they were about; the point was that they were written. Otherwise he could not keep in good health. Where another man might do Swedish exercises, ride, walk, eat or play golf, he, Mr. Pennit, wrote. (Hear, hear.) It might be an attack on British stupidity; it might be a eulogy of Mr. Asquith; it might be a description of the arrival of a ton of coal at an auctioneer's private residence in Handley and its transference to the cellar and the discovery that there was one hundredweight one stone short. Whatever the theme, there were ten thousand words in any case, and unless he could write them daily he was lost. The tragic thing was that he could write only in ink and with his own hand. (Sensation.) Before meddling with ink there were all sorts of things for the Government to forbid. Golf balls, for one. He wished to express his complete dissatisfaction with Mr. Runciman's insane proposal. (Cheers.)

Mr. Bolaire Hillock thought that a great deal too much fuss was being made about ink. The Board of Trade was, of course, an ass; that goes without saying (ça va sans dire); but it is childish of literary men to come there and pretend to be nonplussed. Let them rather show themselves superior to such trumpery legislation. As an old campaigner he could tell them what to do. When he was an artilleryman in France, and writing a series of articles on the Reformation at the same time, he mixed an excellent substitute for ink out of the ashes of his pipe and claret. There were countless things that could be utilised, including blacking, seethed mushrooms, boiled ash-buds, and the juice of the pickled walnut. With such resources as these we intended to go on writing and drawing diagrams long after Mr. Runciman was forgotten. (Loud cheers.)

Lord Penge said that one of the purest pleasures of life was writing to