last week of peace. Debates there were, of course, and much
argument across the table. It was recognised that great changes, social,
economic, military, would come and great adaptations have to be made.
But, meanwhile, to use the phrase which was soon to be familiar in half
a million mouths, people carried on. The Brown couple, for instance.
Each morning they set out gaily, certain of three or four nice wins;
each evening they returned after a day which was "simply awful." Harold
Jupp was at hand with his unfailing remedy.

"We'll go jumping in the winter and get it all back easily. Flat
racing's no good for the poor. The Lords don't come jumping."

Joan Whitworth carried on too, in her sackcloth and sashes. She was
moved by the enthusiastic explosions of Miranda Brown to reveal some
details of the great novel which was then in the process of incubation.

"_She_ insists on being married in a violet dress," said Joan, "with the
organ playing the 'Funeral March of a Marionette.'"

"Oh, isn't that thrilling!" cried Miranda.

"But why does she insist upon these unusual arrangements?" asked Harold
Jupp.

Joan brushed his question aside.

"It was symbolical of her."

"Yes. Linda would have done that," said Miranda. "I suppose her marriage
turns out very unhappily?"

"It had to," said Joan, quite despondent over this unalterable
necessity.

"Now, why?" asked Jupp in a perplexity.

"Her husband never understood her."

"What ho!" cried Dennis Brown, looking up from his scientific researches
into "Form at a Glance."

"I expect that he talked racing all day," said Miranda.

Dennis Brown treated the rejoinder with contempt. His eyes were fixed
sympathetically on the young writer-to-be.

"I hate crabbing any serious effort to elevate us, Joan, but, honestly,
doesn't it all sound a little conventional?"

He could have used no epithet more deplorable. Joan shot at him one
annihilating glance. Miranda bubbled with indignation.

"Don't notice them, Joan dear! They don't know the meaning of words.
They are ribald, uneducated people. You call your heroine Linda?
Linda--what?"

Mr. Jupp supplied a name.

"Linda Spavinsky," said he. "She comes of the ancient Scottish family of
that name."

"Pig! O pig!" cried Joan, routed at last from her superior serenity; and
a second afterwards her eyes danced and with a flash of sound white
teeth she broke into honest laughter. She did her best to suppress her
sense of fun, bu