, like
myself, are the writers of political romance? To all intents we have lost
the Ball-platz; we have lost the Wilhelmstrasse, and now here is Whitehall
going out into the suburbs.... No doubt our leading Ministers, attracted by
the more salubrious air, will establish themselves in the environs of the
Metropolis, leaving behind them only the lower class of civil servant. Have
you considered the devastating effect of this change?

Think what we used to give our readers: "A heavy mist lay over Whitehall.
High above the seething traffic the busy wires hummed with the fate of
Empires." How, I ask you, will it look when they read: "The busy wires
above Lewisham High Street hummed with the fate of Empires"?

Or think of the thrill that was conveyed by this (it comes in three of my
most recent books): "He looked, with a little catch in the throat, and read
the number, 'Ten'--No. 10, Downing Street, where the finger of fate writes
its decrees while a trembling continent waits, where empires are made and
unmade--the hub of the universe...." Doesn't that make even _your_ heart
beat faster? But who will thrill at this: "He waited for a moment before
the bijou semi-detached villa (bath h. and c.), known as Bella Vista, in
Rule Britannia Road, Willesden Junction; then with a swift glance up and
down he stealthily approached. When the neat maid opened the door, 'Is the
Prime Minister in?' he asked?" (He did not hiss. Who could hiss in that
atmosphere?)

Or take this from my last book (shall I ever write its like again?): "Men,
bent with the weight of secrets which, if known, would send a shiver
through the Chancelleries of Europe, could be seen hurrying across the Mall
in the pale light and going towards the great building in which England's
foreign policy is shaped and formulated." But the Foreign Office at Swiss
Cottage, or Wandsworth--I could not write of it. And there will be the
India Office at Tooting, or Ponder's End, or at--But how can your "dusky
Sphinx-like faces, wrapt in the mystery of the East, be seen passing the
purlieus of"--the Ilford Cinema?

But enough, Sir. Let me subscribe myself

A RUINED MAN.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Teacher._ "WHAT ARE ELEPHANTS TUSKS MADE OF?"

_Smart Boy._ "PLEASE, TEACHER, IT USED TO BE IVORY; BUT NOW IT'S GENERALLY
BONZOLINE."]

* * * * *

A STORM IN A TEA-SHOP.

A NEW TALE OF A GRANDFATHER.

You ask me, T