Can we have broken in on a conversation between Venus and Mars?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  MANNERS AND MODES.

PROFITEERING IN THE WEST END COMPELS MAYFAIR TO PUT ON ANY OLD RAGS AND DO
ITS SHOPPING IN SHOREDITCH.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

“WILL YOU STAND BACK, SIR?  YOU’RE SPOILING THE PICTURE.”]

* * * * *

A CONFLICT OF EMOTIONS.

(With the British Army in France.)

“I’ve seen rivetters at New York pie-foundries and stew-specialists on North Sea trawlers,” said Percival severely, “but I never realised how monotonous feeding could be till I got into a Mess controlled by Binnie.”

Binnie puffed his pipe severely, being of the tough fibre which enables Mess Presidents to endure.  Frederick, who had been silent, rose from his seat, heaved a distressing sigh and left the room.

“There’s the moral that adorns the tale, you—­you public danger!” continued Percival, indicating Frederick’s retreating figure.  “Look to what a condition that once bright youth has been brought by your endless stews and curries.”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Binnie lightly.  “Frederico could eat patent breakfast food and toasted doormats without taxing his digestion.  His complaint is the tender passion.  I recognise the symptoms.”

“It looks like an acute attack, anyhow,” said Percival, rising, “and prompt counter-irritants are indicated.  But I’ll confirm your diagnosis first.”

Inside Frederick’s quarters the sound of regular and sustained sighing suggested that the sufferer was in the throes of a spasm of melancholy.  Percival entered and narrowly escaped being drawn into the vortex of a particularly powerful inspiration.

“Freddy, old pard,” he said kindly, “why so triste?  If the trouble’s financial, my cheque-book is unreservedly at your service.  Havin’ no balance at the bank I’ve no use for it myself.”

“It’s not that—­at least not worse than usual,” groaned Frederick.

“Then tell me all about it.”

“It’s a long story,” commenced Frederick.

“Let me off with a synopsis,” interrupted Percival.

“Once upon a time,” continued Frederick, “there was a big war, which made quite a stir in the daily papers and was a common subject of discussion in the clubs.  There were many casualties, amongst them being a blithe young laddy who came down to the Base with a fractured maxilla caused by nibbling an M. and V. ration without previously removing the outside tin—­or something of the sort.  He was sent to hospital and devotedly tended by a Sister of exquisite beauty—­such a figure and such hair!  It wasn’t exactly auburn and not exactly burnished bronze—­”

“And it wasn’t pale puce and it wasn’t ultramarine,” broke in Percival impatiently.  “Tell me what it was, not what it wasn’t.”