look? Well, his face was obviously the face of a changed man. Not that he is changed for the worse. He seemed in the pink of condition, and his clean-cut profile and firm jaw radiated inflexible determination at every pore. No signs of a moustache are yet visible on his finely-chiselled upper lip.

I had no introduction, and no time was to be lost, so without a moment's hesitation I strode up to the President and said, "Permit me, Sir, as the accredited representative of a neutral nation, to offer you this token of respect," and handed him a small Dutch cheese, a dainty to which I had been informed he was especially partial. The President smiled graciously, handed the offering to his secretary, and said, "I thank you, Sir. Won't you join us at the White House at dinner to-night?" I expressed my acceptance in suitable terms, bowed and passed on.

The dinner took place in the famous octagonal dining-room of the White House, which was profusely decorated with the flags of the Scandinavian Kingdoms, Spain, Greece, China, Chile, Peru, Brazil and the Argentine.

The band of the Washington Post Office Rifles was ensconced behind a trellis of olive branches and discoursed a choice selection of soothing music. Flagons of grape-juice and various light and phosphorescent beverages stood on the sideboard. It was a memorable scene and every detail was indelibly impressed on my mind. The President greeted his guests with the calm dignity proper to his high office. He does not affect the high handshake of English smart society, but a firm yet gentle clasp. In repose his features reminded me of Julius Cæsar, but when he smiles he recalls the more genial lineaments of the great Pompey. The general impression created on my mind was one of refined simplicity. As the President himself remarked, quoting Thucydides to one of his Greek guests, [Greek: philukalonmen meht ehuteleias].

It is quite untrue that the conversation was confined to the English tongue. On the contrary all the neutral languages, except Chinese, were spoken, the President showing an equal facility in every one, and honourably making a point of never uttering two consecutive sentences in the same tongue. War topics were rigorously eschewed, and so far as I could follow the conversation—I only speak five of the neutral languages—the subjects ranged from golf to hygienic clothing, from co-education to coon-can.

I do not propose here and now to state the circumstances in which, on leaving the White House, I was kidnapped by some emissaries of Count Bernstorff, and ultimately consigned to the Tombs in New York on a false charge of manslaughter; how I narrowly escaped being electrocuted, and was subsequently deported to Bermuda as an undesirable alien. What I saw and endured in the Tombs is another story. What really matters is the Bill of Fare of the President's dinner, which was printed in Esperanto and ran as follows:—

Turtle Dove Soup.
Norwegian Salmon Cutlets.
Iceland Reindeer Steak.
Tipperusalein Artichokes and Spanish Onions.
Chaudfroid à la Woodrow.
Irene Pudding.
Dutch Cheese Straws.
Brazil Nuts.

After dinner Greek cigarettes were handed round with small cups of China tea and, as an alternative, Peruvian maté.

THE INVASION.

I thought—being very old indeed, "older," as a poem by Mr. Sturge Moore begins, "than most sheep"—I thought, being so exceedingly mature and disillusioned, that I knew all the worries of life. Yet I did not; there was still one that was waiting for me round the corner, but I know that too, now.

I will tell you about it.

To begin with, let me describe myself. I am an ordinary quiet-living obscure person, neither exalted nor lowly, who, having tired of town, took a little place in the country and there settled down to a life of placidity, varied by such inroads upon ease as all back-to-the-landers know: now a raid on the chickens by a fox, whose humour it is not to devour but merely to decapitate; now the disappearance of the gardener at Lord Derby's coat-tails; now a flood; and now and continually a desire on the part of the cook to give a month's notice, if you please, and the consequent resumption of correspondence with the registry office. There you have the main lines of the existence not only of myself, but of thousands of other English rural recluses. But for such little difficulties I have been happy—a Cincinnatus ungrumbling.

The new fly entered the ointment about three weeks ago, when a parcel was brought to me by a footman from the Priory, some three miles away, with a message to the effect that it had been delivered there and opened in error. They were of course very sorry.

I asked how the mistake had occurred.

"Same name," he said. "The house has just been let furnished to some people of the same name as yourself."

Now I have always rather prided myself on the rarity of my name. I don't go so far as to claim that it came over with the Conqueror, but it is an old name and an uncommon one, and hitherto I had been the only owner of it in the district. To have it duplicated was annoying.

Worse however was to come.

I do not expect to be believed, but it is a solemn fact that within a fortnight two more bearers of my name moved into the village. One was a cowman, and the other a maiden lady, so that at the present moment there are four of us all opening or rejecting each other's letters. The thing is absurd. One might as well be named Smith right away.

I don't mind the cowman, but the maiden lady is a large order. I have, as I say, lived in this place for some time—at least six years—and she moved into The Laurels only ten days ago, but when she came round this morning with an opened telegram that was not meant for her, she had the maiden—ladylikehood to remark how awkward it was when other people had the same name as herself. "There should," she said, "never be more than one holder of a name in a small place."

I had no retort beyond the obvious one that I got there first; but I hope that the cowman henceforth gets all her correspondence and delays it. He is welcome to mine so long as he deals faithfully with hers.

So we observe.

MR. PUNCH'S POTTED FILMS. THE WILD WEST DRAMA.

THE ROSEBUD OF GINGER'S GULCH.

The Green-Eyed Monster.	On the Trail.
"He has left his pocket-handkerchief, and he has a cold in the