de localite.  Else why do people do things here which would badly shock us at home? Par exemple, dancing between the courses of a meal is our latest caprice here; but I was un peu etonnee, the other evening, to see the Duchess of Mintford, at a restaurant of the most chic, jazzing off the effects of the turbot with light-hearted abandon.

    Unfortunately a waiter carrying a tray darted across the track
    at the very moment when she was involved in that step so
    embrouillant, the side-roll.

    It took quite a long time to collect, and put in their proper
    order, the waiter, the contents of the tray, her Grace and all the
    other jazzers who were coming up behind.

    But, apres tout, little comment was roused because most of the
    onlookers thought the incident was just part of the dance.

    So long, old thing.

    Bien a vous,

    ANNE.

* * * * *

THE TRUMP SUIT.

  Those who wield Britannia’s power
  Have decreed a blissful hour,
  When the mellow bugle-note
  Sounds in every ship afloat,
  And you see the forrard decks
  Littered up with leathernecks,
  Seamen sprawling on the hatches,
  Darning socks and fitting patches,
  Cleaning jumpers, sewing, smoking,
  Writing, fighting, sleeping, joking,
  Baiting foe and twitting friend—­
  Sailors call it “Make and Mend.”

  In this jolly throng each day
  Gunner ’Erbert, R.M.A.,
  Sat and smoked serenely bored,
  So that I must needs record
  When that precious hour was ended
  He had neither made nor mended.

  ’Erbert was a crumpled rose
  In the beds of N.C.O.’s,
  And a blot on the escutcheon
  Which they pride themselves so much on;
  For, in spite of threat and curse,
  Cells and badges lost, or worse,
  Captain’s frown or sergeants’ oaths,
  ’Erbert wouldn’t mend his clothes.

  In a distant Eastern land
  Certain tribes got out of hand,
  And, to comfort little Mary,
  Sought to stew the missionary. 
  Our Marines were duly sent
  To apportion chastisement,
  And they snatched him from the larder,
  But alas! pursuing harder
  Than was wise in such a scrap,
  They were landed in a trap. 
  For the wily natives got
  All around and copped the lot,
  Stripping off them every stitch
  Of the clothes they stood in, which,
  I am sure you’ll all agree,
  Was a great indignity.

  Copped the lot?  No, there was one
  Absent when the deed was done. 
  ’Erb, with his accustomed push,
  Was advancing when the bush
  Dragged the last remaining stitches
  From the bag he called his breeches,
  Leaving nothing but the dregs
  Of the red stripe down his legs. 
  ’Erbert paused; though not a prude,
  He had never liked the nude.