* * * * *

    “Concrete holds its own in the construction of our houses, our
    public buildings, our brides....”—­New Zealand Paper.

This ought to cement the affections.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  COMMON IDEALS.

BRITISH FOOD PROFITEER (to German ditto).  “ALAS!  MY POOR BROTHER. 
YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN ENGLISHMAN.  ENGLAND IS A FREE COUNTRY.”

[The Berlin Vossische Zeitung states that about four thousand cases of profiteering are dealt with monthly in Germany.]]

* * * * *

THE FUNERAL OF M. DE BLANCHET.

“Never let your husband have a grievance,” said Madame Marcot, stirring the lump of sugar that she had brought with her to put into her cup of tea.  “It destroys the happiness of the most admirable households.  Have you heard of the distressing case of the de Blanchets—­Victor de Blanchet and his wife?”

We had not.

“Very dear friends of mine,” said Madame Marcot vivaciously, delighted at the chance of an uninterrupted innings, “and belonging to a family of the most distinguished.  They were a truly devoted couple, and had never been apart during the whole of their married life.  As for him, he was an excellent fellow.  If he had a fault, it was only that perhaps he was a little near; but still, a good fault, is it not?  When he was called to the Front his wife was desolated, simply desolated.  And then, poor M. de Blanchet—­not the figure for a soldier—­of a rotundity, Mesdames!” And Madame Marcot lifted her eyes heavenwards, struck speechless for a moment at the thought of M. de Blanchet’s outline.  “However, like all good Frenchmen, he made no fuss, but went off to do his duty.  He wrote to his wife every day, and she wrote to him.

“All at once his letters ceased, and then, after a long delay, came the official notice, ‘Missing.’  Imagine the suspense, the anxiety!  For weeks she continued to hope against hope, but at last she heard that his body had been found.  It had been recognised by the clothes, the identity disc (or whatever you call it), and the stoutness, for, alas, the unfortunate gentleman’s head had been nearly blown away by a shell and was quite unrecognisable.  Poor Madame de Blanchet’s grief was terrible to witness when they brought her his sad clothing, with the embroidered initials upon it worked by her own hand.  One thing she insisted on, and that was that his body should be buried at A——­, in the family vault of the de Blanchets, who, as I have said before, are very distinguished people.  “This meant endless red tape, as you may imagine, and endless correspondence with the authorities, and delays and vexations, but finally she got her wish, and the funeral was the most magnificent ever witnessed in that part of the world.  You should have seen the ‘faire part,’” said Madame Marcot, alluding