thrift worsteds under one of our Win-the-War light overcoats (Mr. Jephson, please show that new Win-the-War overcoating) is really helping to keep things going.  We like to reflect, sir (nothing in shirtings, today?) that we’re doing our bit, too, in presenting to the enemy an undisturbed nation of well dressed men.  Nothing else, sir?  The week after next?  Ah!  If we can, sir! but we’re greatly rushed with our new and patriotic Thrift orders.  Good morning, sir.”

The just complaint of Madame Pavalucini, the celebrated contralto.  As interviewed incidentally in the palm-room of The Slitz Hotel, over a cup of tea (one dollar), French Win-the-War pastry (one fifty) and Help-the-Navy cigarettes (fifty).

“I would not want to creetecize ze gouvermen’ ah! non!  That would be what you call a skonk treeck, hein?” (Madame Pavalucini comes from Missouri, and dares not talk any other kind of English than this, while on tour, with any strangers listening.) “But, I ask myself, ees it not just a leetle wrong to discourage and tax ze poor artistes?  We are doing our beet, hein?  We seeng, we recite!  I seeng so many beautiful sings to ze soldiers; sings about love, and youth, and passion, and spring and kisses.  And the men are carried off their feet.  They rise.  They rush to the war.  I have seen them, in my patriotic concerts where I accept nothing but my expenses and my fee and give all that is beyond to the war.  Only last night one arose, right in the front rank—­the fauteuils d’orchestre, I do not know how you call them in English.  ’Let me out of zis,’ he scream, ‘me for the war!  Me for the trenches!’ Was it not magnifique—­what you call splendide, hein?

“And then ze gouvermen’ come and tell me I must pay zem ten thousan’ dollars, when I make only seexty thousan’ dollars at ze opera!  Anozzer skonk treeck, hein?”

The just complaint of Mr. Grunch, income tax payer, as imparted to me over his own port wine, after dinner.

“No, I shouldn’t want to complain:  I mean, in any way that would reach the outside,—­reach it, that is, in connection with my name.  Though I think that the thing ought to be said by somebody.  I think you might say it.  (Let me pour you out another glass of this Conquistador:  yes, it’s the old ’87:  but I suppose we’ll never get any more of it on this side:  they say that the rich Spaniards are making so much money they’re buying up every cask of it and it will never be exported again.  Just another illustration of the way that the war hits everybody alike.) But, as I was saying, I think if you were to raise a complaint about the income tax, you’d find the whole country—­I mean all the men with incomes—­behind you.  I don’t suppose they’d want you to mention their names.  But they’d be behind you, see?  They’d all be there.  (Will you try one of these Googoolias?  They’re the very best, but I guess we’ll never see them again.  They say the rich Cubans are buying them