ifles was ensconced behind a
trellis of olive branches and discoursed a choice selection of soothing
music. Flagons of grape-juice and various light and phosphorescent
beverages stood on the sideboard. It was a memorable scene and every
detail was indelibly impressed on my mind. The President greeted his
guests with the calm dignity proper to his high office. He does not
affect the high handshake of English smart society, but a firm yet
gentle clasp. In repose his features reminded me of Julius Caesar, but
when he smiles he recalls the more genial lineaments of the great
Pompey. The general impression created on my mind was one of refined
simplicity. As the President himself remarked, quoting Thucydides to one
of his Greek guests, [Greek: philukalonmen meht ehuteleias].

It is quite untrue that the conversation was confined to the English
tongue. On the contrary all the neutral languages, except Chinese, were
spoken, the President showing an equal facility in every one, and
honourably making a point of never uttering two consecutive sentences in
the same tongue. War topics were rigorously eschewed, and so far as I
could follow the conversation--I only speak five of the neutral
languages--the subjects ranged from golf to hygienic clothing, from
co-education to coon-can.

I do not propose here and now to state the circumstances in which, on
leaving the White House, I was kidnapped by some emissaries of Count
Bernstorff, and ultimately consigned to the Tombs in New York on a false
charge of manslaughter; how I narrowly escaped being electrocuted, and
was subsequently deported to Bermuda as an undesirable alien. What I saw
and endured in the Tombs is another story. What really matters is the
Bill of Fare of the President's dinner, which was printed in Esperanto
and ran as follows:--

Turtle Dove Soup.
Norwegian Salmon Cutlets.
Iceland Reindeer Steak.
Tipperusalein Artichokes and Spanish Onions.
Chaudfroid a la Woodrow.
Irene Pudding.
Dutch Cheese Straws.
Brazil Nuts.

After dinner Greek cigarettes were handed round with small cups of China
tea and, as an alternative, Peruvian _mate._

* * * * *

THE INVASION.

I thought--being very old indeed, "older," as a poem by Mr. Sturge Moore
begins, "than most sheep"--I thought, being so exceedingly mature and
disillusioned, that I knew all the worries of life. Yet I did not; there
was still one that was wait