famous flying exit in Le Spectre da la Rose. Could fancy be translated into fact, the drawing power of such a spectacle would be prodigious. On the other hand, and in view of the notorious adaptability of the Slavonic temperament, we can well imagine Nijinsky proving an admirable Lord Chancellor. Exchanges of this sort would add to the comity of nations besides enhancing the amenities of public life, and it is perhaps not too much to hope that provision for carrying this out may be in the Government's scheme for the Reform of the House of Lords.

"New Zealand mutton was yearly increasing in public flavour."—Times.

It mustn't get too powerful.

From an advertisement of a land sale in Ceylon Morning Leader:—

"An undivided ¹/₃ + ¹/₃₆ + ¹/₂ of ³/₈₀ + ¹/₂₄ + ¹/₂ of ¹/₁₈ parts of the land called Vitarmalage Gamwasama at Yatawala in extent 500 amunams paddy sowing."

A chance for a newly-created peer who wants a family seat from which to take his title and quarterings.

The meeting of Antony and Cleopatra as described in Hutchinson's History of the Nations:—

"When they met first he was twenty-nine and she was sixteen; now he was forty-two and she was twenty-seven."

Anyhow she would say so.

Kind Old Gentleman. "What a delightful little pet! I have always a soft place for animals."

A LOST LEADER.

"Enid," I said, "we must offer something to somebody."

"You don't mean Squawks?" she pleaded piteously.

"I wish I did," I sighed. Squawks is a Pomorachshund—at least I think so; though Enid inclines towards the Chowkingese theory. Anyhow, he himself has always realised that someone had blundered, and has worked steadily to make a dog of himself.

"Well, if it's not Squawks, I don't care," remarked Enid.

"I wish you'd take some interest."

"What in?"

"In what I say."

"What did you say?"

"We must," I repeated, "offer something to somebody."

"That's not very enthusey. Unless"—and her whole face brightened—"you mean what you call your reading-chair. It threw me on to the floor and knelt on me only yesterday; and I know Aunt Anne——"

"Enid," I said sternly, "that's not the point."

"I was afraid not."

"The thing is, one must be in the swim. Everybody is offering things right and left now. Look at Sutherland, Derby—even Lloyd George."

"I didn't know they were friends of yours."

"Not exactly; but——"

"Then why so familiar?"

"My dear," I explained, "that is the point. Once get your name in the papers at the end of a two-column letter and you are the friend of all the world—it gives one an entrée to the castle of the Duke and the cottage of the crofter."

"Even before you've written it?"

"I have written it!"

"Oh, how splendid! Where?"

"In here," I said, tapping the best bit of my head.

"Oh, that!" And then, pensively: "Next time Mary Jane has a brainstorm, I'll tell her to call you 'Charley.' Poor girl!"

"I don't think you quite appreciate," I remarked.

"I don't. What exactly do we stand to gain?"

"There's the rub. Not lucre. Perish the thought! But one begins to be a power, an influence. People whisper in the Tube, 'Who's that?' 'That! Don't you know? Why Him—He! The man who is making the Government a laughing-stock. The man who holds the Empire in the palm of his hand. The man who——'"

"Thanks," said Enid. "We had better buy a gramophone. I thought you were getting fidgety at home."

"Dearest," I explained, "it is not that. It is because I feel in me a spirit that will not be denied. Give me the opportunity and I will make this land, this England——"

"Hush, Squawks. Was'ms frightened then, poor darling!"

"That dog——"

"Hush!" said Enid to me. "How are you going to begin?"

"It is quite simple. Somebody writes something to the papers."

"Yes; so far it sounds easy."

"Now that something is hideously disparaging to my class and calling. I promptly answer him."

"That is, if you can be funnier at his expense than he at yours."

"I shan't be funny at all."

"No?" said Enid thoughtfully.

"Mine will be a scathing indictment, and of course I shall bring in the political situation. He writes back, evading the point at issue. I crush him with figures and statistics, and make him a practical offer—a few deer-forests, a paltry township, or my unearned increment, as the case may be."

"The mowing-machine is out of order," Enid remarked.

"I quote passages in his letter as the basis of negotiation. He pretends to accept. I point out how, when and why he has been guilty of paltry quibbling, and show that the Party he supports fosters such methods and manners."

"Is that all?"

"No. And that is just where I shall differ from everybody else. I shall go on where they have stopped. Having made one individual ridiculous, I shall broaden the basis of operation. With consummate skill I shall gradually draw the public officials down into the arena."

"Don't forget the gas-man; he was very rude last month."

"Not that kind," I explained. "Cabinet Ministers, Secretaries of State, the whole machinery of government shall writhe under the barbed shafts of my mockery. Ridicule is the power of the age. Ridicule in my hands shall be as bayonets to Napoleon, as poison to a Borgia." I gasped.

"Help!" said Enid, taking up The Daily Most. "Here's the very thing," she went on. "Somebody called 'A. Lethos'——"

"Pah! A pseudonym."

"Well, anyhow, he says that all political writers are worthless sycophants. You might begin on that."

"I will," I cried. "But craven anonymity is not my part. My name shall stand forth boldly. Fate's linger points the way. How do you spell 'sycophant'? The type has gone a bit dizzy over it."

And I plunged into the fray.

"Sir," I began; and there followed 2,000 words of closely-woven argument, down to "I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant."

I read it through carefully, looked up "sycophant" in the dictionary, and wrote it all out again.

Then I showed it to Enid.

"Why have you spelt 'sycophant' like that?" she asked.

"I——"

"No, 'y.'"

"It is a 'y.'"

"Oh!" (Pause.) "What about the offer? Mr. Lethos says that ninetenths of what is written nowadays is only worth the ink and paper."

"The offer," I reminded her, "will come later."

"Oh! I just thought—— You might get rid of those articles on 'Happiness in the Home' at cost price. They're running up to quite a lot in stamps."

I posted the letter to the Editor.

Next morning I seized the paper nervously. There was my name at the end of a column and a half. I had begun.

I sat down to wait for the next step. It came with the mid-day post in a letter from Saxby, who is—or was—my friend.

"Good old Tibbles," it ran; "I knew some