“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
  Where oxlips—­”

Though I was very angry at the way she had deceived me, I must admit that her voice was not unpleasing.

* * * * *

In A good cause.

The National Baby Week Council, which for many years has done admirable work in promoting the Welfare of Infancy and Motherhood, is to hold its annual “Week” from July 1st to 7th.  Among other London celebrations a Conference will be held at Kingsway Hall, under the Presidency of Dr. Addison, on the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.  Applications for admission (one guinea, to include proofs of papers to be read and a copy of the Report; or ten shillings, without printed matter) should be addressed to Miss Halford, Secretary, National Association for the Prevention of Infant Mortality, 4 and 5 Tavistock Square, W.C.1.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A redress rehearsal.

Our Mr. Montagu (practising on dummy). “The latest line in Western head-wear, sir, and, if you will allow me to say so, very becoming to you.  Thank you, sir, and the next article?”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Son of the House (after being introduced to professor of mathematics). “Now what shall I talk to you about?”]

* * * * *

A tangled triangle.

The Patisserie Delarue et Salon de Consommations is situated just on the edge of Europe.  Being a place of extreme military importance I dare not indicate its position with greater exactitude, but may go so far as to say that it can be found by stepping off the boat, crossing the bridge and then inquiring of the Military Police.  Its importance is due to the quality of its creme eclairs, which attract the gilded Staff in such large numbers that the interior is usually suffused like an Eastern sunset with a rich glow of red tabs and gilt braid.  Within its walls junior subalterns, now, alas, a rapidly diminishing species, dally with insidious ices until their immature moustaches are pendulous with lemon-flavoured icicles and their hair is whitened with sugared rime.

There it was that Frederick discovered Percival feebly and mournfully pecking at a vanilla ice.

“Greeting, old Spartan,” said he.  “Training for the Murman coast?”

“Would that I were!” replied Percival.  “I’m refrigerating my sorrows.  I’ve tried to drown them, but they float; so I’m by way of freezing them under.”

“Poor Perce!” murmured Frederick.  “I suppose it’s Cox again?”