Whither will they wander next, I wonder? 
    Not, I hope and pray, within the reach
  Of the tribes who live on loot and plunder,
    Fanatics who practise what they preach. 
  Fancy if these horrible disturbers,
    Swooping on our countrymen astray,
  Touaregs and Bedouins and Berbers,
    Carried off the succulent TAY PAY!

  Hardly had this agonizing presage
    Taken shape within my tortured brain,
  When good REUTER flashed the welcome message,
    “Chancellor Returns,” across the main. 
  Neptune, be thy waters calm, not choppy,
    As they speed them on their homeward way,
  GEORGE and HENRY and, bowed down with “copy,”
    Our unique arch-eulogist, TAY PAY.

* * * * *

THE MARRIED MAN’S ADVANTAGE.

Personally I think too much respect is paid to age.  There is nothing clever in being old—­nothing at all.  On the other hand, youth has a charm of its own.  Besides, twenty-two is not young; you wouldn’t think me so if you really knew me.  The doubt arises, I suppose, from a certain innate light-heartedness.  It is really rather pathetic.

Daphne chooses to see humour in the situation, which is very absurd of her, and, as I point out, merely reflects on herself.  Surely she doesn’t wish to admit that it is foolish to love her.

And that, to make a clean breast of it, is exactly what I do, and do madly.

I follow her about, reverently watching her every movement, hanging on her every word—­no light task.  And my reward?  A scant unceremonious “Hallo!” when we meet; a scanter “Night” or “Morning,” according to the circumstances, when we part.  A brave smile from me and she is gone, an unwitting spectator of a real tragedy.

Up to a few days ago I was content to bear with my lot, but last week I rebelled.  It was at a dance, after supper.  Daphne had certainly shown a sort of affection for me, motherly rather than otherwise, I think; nevertheless an affection.  But then, and not for the first time, I had seen her flirting with another.

I decided to lose my temper.  I went into the smoke-room and deliberated very close to the fire.  In five minutes I left the room heated.

I found Daphne at once.

“Our dance,” I said.  “We will sit out.”

My manner must have been rather terrifying.  At any rate we sat out.

“Daphne,” I began, “I am in a mood that brooks no trifling.  For weeks I have loved you.  You spurn me.”

“Oh, Billy, do be sensible,” Daphne murmured.

I moderated my tone.  “Well, look here,” I said, “why are you so cold to me and yet flirt with my cousin?  I saw you putting his tie straight and patting his arm just now; and you won’t let me even hold your hand.  It’s pretty hard, Daphne.”

She laughed.  “My dear Billy—­”

“Many thanks for yours of yesterday.  I am having a very good time and it is really kind of me to write.”