his coat.

"Mon!" he exclaimed earnesly, "do ye play tennis?"

Just what is the Liberal Club?

You may have contradictory answers commensurate with the number of
members you interrogate. One will tell you that it is a fake; one that
it is the only vehicle of free speech; Arthur Moss says it is "the
most _il_-liberal club in the world"! Floyd Dell says it is
paramountly a medium for entertainment, and that it is "not so much a
clearing house of new ideas as of new people"!

The Liberal Club goes up, and the Liberal Club goes down. It has its
good seasons and its bad, its fluctuations as to standards and
favour, its share in the curious and inevitable tides that swing all
associations back and forth like pendulums.

There is a real passion for dancing in the Village, and it is
beautiful dancing that shows practice and a natural sense of rhythm.
The music may be only from a victrola or a piano in need of tuning,
but the spirit is, most surely, the vital spirit of the dance. At the
Liberal Club everyone dances. After you have passed through the lounge
room--the conventional outpost of the club, with desks and tables and
chairs and prints and so on--you find yourself in a corridor with long
seats, and windows opening on to Nora Van Leuwen's big, bare,
picturesque Dutch Oven downstairs. On the other side of the corridor
is the dance room--also the latest exhibition. Some of the pictures
are very queer indeed. The last lot I saw were compositions in deadly
tones of magenta and purple. The artist was a tall young man, the son
of a famous illustrator. He strolled in quite tranquilly for a
dance,--with those things of his in full view! All the courage is not
on battlefields.

Said a girl, who, Village-like, would not perjure her soul to be
polite:

"Why so much magenta?"

And said he quite sweetly:

"Why not? I can paint people green if I like, can't I?"

With which he glided imperturbably off in a fox trot with a girl in an
"art sweater."

Harry Kemp says: "They make us sick with their scurrilous, ignorant
stories of the Village. Pose? Sure!--it's two-thirds pose. But the
rest is beautiful. And even the pose is beautiful in its way. Life is
rotten and beautiful both at once. So is the Village. The Village is
big in idea and it's growing. They talk of its being a dead letter.
It's just beginning. First it--the Village, as it is now--was really a
sort of off-shoot of London and Paris. Now it's itself and I tell you