figure with his coal-black hair and nails, his drooping
eye-lashes and under-lip, and the downward sweep of his ingratiating
nose. The war found him burning with enthusiasm, and I give here one
verse of a fine poem which he wrote and, as I will remember, recited in
Mrs. Mopworth's _salon_:

I vos in Luntun since t'ree year,
In dis lant I holt so tear,
Inklant, my Inklant!
Mit her overbowering might
If she gonquer in der fight,
M. Morgenstein vill be all right--
_Nicht?_--
Inklant, my own!

He was a man of diverse talents, and I used to regret that he gave to
the tripe-dressing what was meant for the muses. Alas, he was, though
indirectly, one of the many victims of the Great War. His scheme for the
concealment of excess profits was elaborate and ingenious, and practised
with assiduity. His simple mind could not apprehend that elemental
honesty was in process of modification. "Vot I maig for myself, dat I
keeb, _nicht?_" he often said to me. And then the blow fell.

However, he has earned the utmost remission to which good conduct could
entitle him, and we are hoping that he will be out again by Christmas.

My next sister, Saccharine, was of a filmy and prismatic beauty that was
sufficient evidence of her Cohltar origin--our mother, of course, was a
Cohltar. I never thought her mind the equal of my own. Indeed, at the
moment of going to press I have not yet met the mind that I thought the
equal of my own. But about her beauty there was no doubt. In those
days--I am speaking of the 'nineties--it was quite an ordinary event for
my sister, inadvertently, to hold up an omnibus. The horses pulled up as
soon as they saw her, and refused to move until they had drunk their
fill of her astounding beauty. I well remember one occasion on which the
horses in a West Kensington omnibus met her at Piccadilly Circus and
refused to leave her until she reached Highgate, in spite of the whip of
the driver, the blasphemy of the conductor, the more formal complaints
of the passengers, and direct police intervention.

She was a sweet girl in those days, and I loved her. I never had any
feelings of jealousy. How can one who is definitely assured of
superiority to everybody be jealous of anybody?

She married a Russian, Alexis Chopitoff. He was a perfect artist in his
own medium, which happened to be hair. It is to him that I owe what is
my only beauty, and I am assured that