table?

No, it's a trick! The artist knew I should never have the effrontery to sit there, right under the Prime Minister's nose. Very well, Mr. Olivier, exhausted though I am, I shall not vote for you either.

There's a dull pain all down my spine. My feet are like lead. Give it up? Never! I will not leave until I have found the masterpiece.

But I can stem the tide no longer. I surrender myself to the mob and let it bear me whither it wills....

Where am I? Oh, the Architectural Room. Thronged this afternoon, like all the others. And yet, once upon a time, before I grew old and weary—heavens, how weary!—I remember this room with only one other person in it, and she——

Why, here! Right in front of me; No. 1235: London County Westminster and Parr's Bank, Ltd.: Brondesbury branch. That's it. That's the best picture in the Academy!

Not so much because of its chiaroscuro, not because of its romantic associations, but because, immediately opposite that branch-bank, there's a place where at last, at long, long last—ah!—I can sit down.

OPEN DIPLOMACY.

Stung to the quick by the accusation of secrecy hurled at him by a portion of the Press in connection with the conference at Lympne, Mr. Lloyd George has arranged with M. Millerand, we understand, to make the next encounter, on French soil, a vastly different affair. As a delicate compliment to the Welsh blood shared by the Prime Minister and the greatest of our Tudor kings, and through the courtesy of Sir Philip Sassoon who has kindly promised to defray the whole of the expenses, the mise en scène will be arranged to resemble, almost to the minutest detail, the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

The place of meeting will be between Ardres and Guisnes. Hundreds of skilful workmen, if they do not happen to be on strike, will be employed in erecting the pavilions that are to lodge the two statesmen, who will meet in open field, but not be allowed, either of them, to visit the camp of the other lest they be suspected of secret diplomacy. M. Millerand and Mr. Lloyd George will first meet riding on horseback, and each wearing as much cloth of gold and silver as can possibly be put upon their backs. Mimic jousts and mock combats will be held. Lord Derby, Lord Riddell and Mr. Philip Kerr will all encounter chosen French champions. Six days will be given to tilting with the lance, two to fights with the broadsword on horseback, two to fighting on foot at the barriers. Mr. Lloyd George will wrestle with M. Millerand.

On the last day there will be a gorgeous masque, at which the Prime Minister will appear accoutred as Hercules, wearing a shirt of silver damask, with a garland of green damask cut into vine and hawthorn leaves on his head, and in his hand a club with fourteen spikes. His Nemean lion skin will be of cloth of gold, and his buskins of the same material. Fountains of French wine will play in the British marquee. M. Millerand's chief pavilion will have a magnificent dome, sustained by one huge mast, covered with cloth of gold and lined with blue velvet, with all the orbs of heaven worked on it in gold, and on the top outside a hollow golden figure of St. Michael. All the Press, but particularly those representing Lord Northcliffe's papers, will be not only allowed, but entreated and cajoled, to go everywhere and see everything, to play about with the ropes of the tents and take snippets of cloth of gold for souvenirs.

Oh, how different from Lympne (pronounced "mph")!