her rather less frequently, were rather
less emotional and divorced, and understood with more precision which
profiteers it was worth while to prosecute and which not, and why the
second class was so much larger than the first; and, in general, had
learnt to manage rather better this unmanageable peace.

The outlook, domestic and international, was still what those who think
in terms of colour call black. The Irish question, the Russian question,
the Italian-Adriatic question, and all the Asiatic questions, remained
what those who think in terms of angles call acute. Economic ruin,
political bankruptcy, European chaos, international hostilities had
become accepted as the normal state of being by the inhabitants of this
restless and unfortunate planet.

2

Such was the state of things in the world at large. In literary London,
publishers produced their spring lists. They contained the usual hardy
annuals and bi-annuals among novelists, several new ventures, including
John Potter's _Giles in Bloomsbury_ (second impression); Jane Hobart's
_Children of Peace_ (A Satire by a New Writer); and Leila Yorke's _The
Price of Honour_. ('In her new novel, Leila Yorke reveals to the full the
Glittering psychology combined with profound depths which have made this
well-known writer famous. The tale will be read, from first page to
last, with breathless interest. The end is unexpected and out of the
common, and leaves one wondering.' So said the publisher; the reviewers,
more briefly, 'Another Leila Yorke.')

There were also many memoirs of great persons by themselves, many
histories of the recent war, several thousand books of verse, a monograph
by K.D. Varick on Catalysers and Catalysis and the Generation of
Hydrogen, and _New Wine_ by the Reverend Laurence Juke.

The journalistic world also flourished. The _Weekly Fact_ had become, as
people said, quite an interesting and readable paper, brighter than the
_Nation_, more emotional than the _New Statesman_, gentler than the _New
Witness_, spicier than the _Spectator_, more chatty than the _Athenaeum_,
so that one bought it on bookstalls and read it in trains.

There was also the new Pinkerton fourpenny, the _Wednesday Chat_,
brighter, more emotional, gentler, spicier, and chattier than them
all, and vulgar as well, nearly as vulgar as _John Bull_, and quite
as sentimental, but less vicious, so that it sold in its millions
from the outset, and soon had a poem up on the walls o