She had just reached that passage in Nathaniel’s song where a triumphant ascending scale in G rings out.  She faltered and played D-flat instead of D-natural, the first dissonance that night—­would it had been the last!  Quickly she turned on the music-stool and on him, and spoke with averted head.

“Mr. Armstrong, I will own frankly that I like you more than a little.  Though we only met three days ago I am more drawn to you than I have ever been to any other man.”

“Aha,” he cried exultingly.

“But,” she said, “I must say something about myself.  While I am a War-worker, I have never told you yet what I am doing.  I am a clerk in Marr’s Bank, in Cheapside.”

“There is nothing dishonourable in that,” he almost shouted.

“There is not,” she answered, haughtily drawing herself up.

“I keep my account there,” he said.

“I know,” she replied; “I am in the Pass-book department.”

He stood quite still, but the lapels of his dinner-jacket shook slightly.

“My duties,” she went on quietly, “are to report each evening to my chief, Mr. Hassets, on our clients’ balances.  Yours has never been higher than L24 7_s._ 9_d._ during the eighteen months that I have been there.  I am very sorry, but I cannot marry you.”

He looked straight into her inscrutable eyes and the right repartee froze on his lips.

On the morrow he left at dawn, just as the birds were beginning to drop; and before the day was over he had transferred his account from Marr’s Bank to Parr’s.

* * * * *

    “CHAPLAIN ——­ ASKS GUIDANCE FOR THE AUTHORITIES.

    Prays that recent events may be prevented.”—­Baltimore News.

Surely this is asking too much.

* * * * *

    “British troops in Macedonia are now in possession of Deltawah and
    Sindiyah, some thirty-five miles north of Bagdad, and of Falluyah on
    the Euphrates, thirty-six miles west of Bagdad.”—­Sunday Paper.

We know on Fluellen’s authority that Macedon and Monmouth are very much alike; and so, it seems, is Mesopotamia.

* * * * *

BACK TO THE LAND.

  The wintry days are with us still;
    The roads are deep in liquid dirt;
  The rain is wet, the wind is chill,
    And both are coming through my shirt;
  And yet my heart is light and gay;
    I shout aloud, I hum a snatch;
  Why am I full of mirth?  To-day
    I’m planting my potato patch.

  The KAISER sits and bites his nails
    In Pots- (or some adjoining) dam;
  He wonders why his peace talk fails
    And how to cope with Uncle Sam;
  The General Staff has got the hump;
    In vain each wicked scheme they hatch;
  I’ve handed them the final thump
    By planting my potato patch.