white teeth, and it seems plain that no dentist will ever make his fortune out of your mouth.  All this, however, has nothing to do with getting my hair cut.  But it brings me to an analogous consideration.  When I tell my wife I am going to get my teeth attended to, does she try to restrain me from the fatal deed?  Not she.  She urges me to it, and leaves me no loophole for escape.  She indulges in reminiscences of herself and the children defying pain in the dentist’s chair, and heartens me with the statement that the instrument she likes best is the one that goes berr-r-r-r and makes you jump.

Let me now resume my commentary on hair-cutting.  I wonder if I am sufficiently chatty with my hair-cutter.  Most men talk to their hair-cutter all the time.  They discuss politics and revolutions and Britain’s unconquerable might, while I, having made a blundering start with the weather, am brought up with a round turn on the Bolsheviks and President WILSON’S manner of dealing with the situation.  I cannot lay bare my inmost thoughts about the League of Nations while someone is running a miniature mowing-machine along the back of my neck ...

At this moment my wife entered the room.

“My dear,” I said, “I am going to get my hair cut.”

She gave me one mind-piercing look and said, “It’s time you did.  I’ve been noticing it for the last day or two.”

Nothing, you see, about convicts.  Isn’t that like a woman, never to say the thing you expect her to say?  It’s taken all the pleasure out of my visit to the barber.  In fact I don’t think I shall go at all.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE ENFRANCHISEMENT OF WOMAN.

First Voter.  “SO MR. JONES HAS BEEN ELECTED. YOU VOTED FOR HIM, OF COURSE?”

Second Voter.  “NO, I VOTED FOR THE OTHER MAN.  YOU SEE, MR. JONES SUPPORTED WOMAN’S SUFFRAGE, WHICH I ABHOR.”]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERICS.)

Secrets of the Bosphorus (HUTCHINSON) is one of the happily large number of books to which time and tardy-footed justice have now added an unwritten chapter that makes amends for all.  But for the glories of the last few months I think I could hardly have borne to read many of these “revelations” of Mr. HENRY MORGENTHAU, sometime American Ambassador to Turkey.  They make strange and often tragic reading.  One of them is already famous:  the disclosure of the narrow margin by which the attack of the Allied fleets upon the Dardanelles came short of victory.  For that, with all its ghastly sequence of misadventure, no happy end can quite compensate.  But one may read more pleasantly now of the Prussian Baron WANGENHEIM, sitting the day long on a bench before his official residence to exult publicly in what looked like the triumphal march to Paris.  Mr. MORGENTHAU has many other matters of interest