ld be explained as "your Filboid Studge that you didn't
eat this morning." Those strange fanatics who ostentatiously mortify
themselves, inwardly and outwardly, with health biscuits and health
garments, battened aggressively on the new food. Earnest, spectacled
young men devoured it on the steps of the National Liberal Club. A
bishop who did not believe in a future state preached against the
poster, and a peer's daughter died from eating too much of the
compound. A further advertisement was obtained when an infantry
regiment mutinied and shot its officers rather than eat the nauseous
mess; fortunately, Lord Birrell of Blatherstone, who was War Minister
at the moment, saved the situation by his happy epigram, that
"Discipline to be effective must be optional."

Filboid Studge had become a household word, but Dullamy wisely realized
that it was not necessarily the last word in breakfast dietary; its
supremacy would be challenged as soon as some yet more unpalatable food
should be put on the market. There might even be a reaction in favour
of something tasty and appetizing, and the Puritan austerity of the
moment might be banished from domestic cookery. At an opportune
moment, therefore, he sold out his interests in the article which had
brought him in colossal wealth at a critical juncture, and placed his
financial reputation beyond the reach of cavil. As for Leonore, who
was now an heiress on a far greater scale than ever before, he
naturally found her something a vast deal higher in the husband market
than a two-hundred-a-year poster designer. Mark Spayley, the
brainmouse who had helped the financial lion with such untoward effect,
was left to curse the day he produced the wonder-working poster.

"After all," said Clovis, meeting him shortly afterwards at his club,
"you have this doubtful consolation, that 'tis not in mortals to
countermand success."

THE MUSIC ON THE HILL

Sylvia Seltoun ate her breakfast in the morning-room at Yessney with a
pleasant sense of ultimate victory, such as a fervent Ironside might
have permitted himself on the morrow of Worcester fight. She was
scarcely pugnacious by temperament, but belonged to that more
successful class of fighters who are pugnacious by circumstance. Fate
had willed that her life should be occupied with a series of small
struggles, usually with the odds slightly against her, and usually she
had just managed to come through winning. And now she felt