e green-house?" I asked suddenly. "Do we need a fire there
all winter just that John may swagger about his chrysanths?"

John, I should explain, is the gardener who jobs for us at seven-and-six
weekly, and "chrysanths" is a perfectly beastly word that we have
contracted from him. In summer John mows the lawn (_fortissimo_ at 6.30
A.M.) and neglects to weed the strawberries. In winter he attends to
what auctioneers would call the "commodious glass."

"M'yes," said Ursula reflectively. "But what about John himself?"

"My dear girl, surely it is obvious by the simplest political
science----"

"Sweetheart!" interposed Ursula anxiously, "John isn't going to have
anything to do with the Moratorium or hoarding gold, is he? Because, do
remember how cross you got trying to explain that!"

"I remember nothing of the sort!"

"And, anyhow," she continued, "now we're saving in so many other things,
I intend to pay John an extra half-crown, in case food goes up."

There was obviously only one thing to do, and I did it. I retired in
fair order, abandoning to Ursula the task of preparing the schedule of
our domestic retrenchment. At lunch she produced it.

"The bother is," she observed, "that what with truest economy clothes
and champagne, and John, and some other things, it seems to work out at
about two pounds a week more than we spend now."

"That," I said cuttingly, "is at least a beginning!"

However, since then I have discovered an article in another paper
denouncing panic economies as unpatriotic. So we shall probably return
to the old _regime_, plus John's half-crown. Even with this, it will
mean a distinct saving of thirty-seven-and-six on Ursula's proposals. It
is not often that one gets a chance of serving one's country on such
easy terms.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Father_ (_who has been stung by a wasp on the back of
his neck_). "I DON'T CARE IF IT'S FULL OF GERMANS, _I'M_ NOT GOING TO
LOOK UP AT IT."

* * * * *

TO A POMPADOUR CLOCK.

Bright loves and tangled flowers
Adorn your china face;
You beat out silver hours
Within your golden case.

Still rings old Time's denial
Of respite in your tone,
But o'er your painted dial
Is built a little throne--

A throne so neat and narrow
Where, heedless of your chime,
Poising his gilded arrow
Sits Cupid killing Time!

* * * * *

OUR