“Walked it off!  Where?”

“All over the house.  Most exciting.”

“Do you mean to say you were walking about the house last night all by yourself?” Aunt Angela exclaimed in horror.

Miss Brown shook her grey head.  “Oh, no, not by myself.  Our sympathetic young friend had a touch of insomnia himself for once and was good enough to keep me company.”  She smiled sweetly in my direction.  “He was most entertaining.  I’ve been chuckling ever since.”

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Urchin (who has been “moved on” by emaciated policeman).  “AIN’T YER GOT A COOK ON YOUR BEAT?”]

* * * * *

OUR SPARTAN EDITORS.

    “WANTED:  THE CAT.  By Horatio Bottomley.”—­John Bull.

* * * * *

MARDI GRAS.

(With the British Army in France.)

“Have you reflected, mon chou,” said M’sieur Bonneton, complacently regarding the green carnations on his carpet-slippers, “that to-morrow is Mardi Gras?”

“I have,” replied Madame shortly.

“One may expect then, ma petite, that there will be crepes for dinner?”

“With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?” said Madame decidedly.  “One may not.”

On any other matter M’sieur would probably have taken his wife’s decision as final, but he had a consuming passion for crepes, and was moreover a diplomat.

“La vie chere!” he said sadly; “it cuts at the very vitals of hospitality.  With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and said, ’It is the custom in France for all the world to eat crepes on Mardi Gras.  Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.’  But when eggs are twelve francs the dozen”—­he shook his head gloomily—­“generous sentiments must perish.”

Madame perceptibly softened.

“Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle to sell me a few at ten francs the dozen,” she murmured; and M’sieur knew that diplomacy had won another notable victory.

Curiously enough, at this precise moment the tenants of the premier etage of 10 bis, rue de la Republique, were also engaged in a gastronomic discussion.

“If almanacs in France count as they do in Aldershot,” said Mrs. Coghlan, “to-morrow will be Shrove Tuesday.”

“An’ what av it?” demanded Sergeant-Major Coghlan of the British Army.

“What of it?  As though ye’d not been dreaming of pancakes this fortnight an’ more past—­fearful to mention thim an’ fearful lest I should forget.  Well, well, if ye’ll bring a good flour ration in the marning I’ll do me best.”

“I’ve been thinking, Peggy lass,” said the gratified Sergeant-Major, “it wud be the polite thing to make a few for thim dacent people on the ground-flure.  I’ll wager they’ve niver seen th’ taste av’ a pancake in this country.”