“Hush, hush,” I whispered; “have an aspirin.”

“But it’s quite true,” she cried hopelessly.  “And She’s just what I ought to be.  She says everything just in the right place.  When I compare myself with Her, I know I’m not a bit the kind of person you admire, and—­and it’s no good pretending any longer.  I’m not jealous, only—­sort of misrubble.”

She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her conclusion.

“We must part,” she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking to the window; “I can’t help it.  I suppose I’m not good enough for you.  You must be free to marry Her when we find Her.  I too,” she sighed, “must be free....”

“I now call upon myself to speak,” I remarked, rising hurriedly.  “Janet,” I continued, arriving at her side, “keep perfectly still and do not attempt to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like.”

(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if people believed me it would only attract more callers.)

“All right,” she continued, unruffling her hair; “but if I do you must promise to leave off writing stories about me.  Will you?”

“But, darling,” I objected, “consider the bread-and-jam.”

She was silent.

“Well, then,” she said at last, “you must only write careful ones that I can live up to.”

“I’ll try,” I agreed remorsefully; “I’ll go and do one now—­all about this.  And you can censor it.”  I left the room jauntily.

Janet’s voice, suddenly repentant, followed me.

“No,” she called, “that won’t do either.  Because if it’s a true one you won’t sell it.”

“But if it isn’t,” I called back, “and I do, we can put the money in the Divorce Fund.”

* * * * *

THE SORROWS OF A SUPER-PROFITEER.

    [Bradford wool-spinners are stated to be unable to escape from the
    deluge of wealth that pours upon them or avoid making profits of three
    thousand two hundred per cent.]

  And so you thought we simply steered
    Great motor-cars to champagne dinners
  And bought tiaras and were cheered
    By hopes of breeding Epsom winners;
  Eh, lad, you little knew the weird
    Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners.

  How hollow are those marble halls,
    The place I built and deemed a show-thing,
  Its terraces, its waterfalls—­
    Once more I hear that sound of loathing,
  The bell rings and a stranger calls
    To speak of underclothing.

  They’ve bashed my offices to wrecks,
    They’ve broke their way beyond the warders,
  And now my country seat they vex,
    They trample my herbaceous borders;
  They chase me up and down with cheques,
    They flummox me with orders.