For instance, we dined at the Garishes last night, a formal affair of twenty-four covers, and instead of my taking in Evelyn, as of old, she had Cecil Hash on one side, and on the other, Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, whom I made. Gladys was at the other end with a jolly crowd--Gastly, Garish, and the Countess of Less, who was Evangeline Very, and has just returned alone to this country from England for a prolonged stay. As for me, I took in old Mrs. Handy, somebody's poor relative, and had on my left Timpey Duff's deaf-and-dumb sister--I think she was deaf and dumb, for she only spoke once all evening. It was positively the only night in my life that I have eaten anything at a formal dinner, and the single time I attracted the slightest attention was when I almost choked to death on a lot of terrapin bone that got crosswise in my throat. Afterward, in the smoking-room, Garish, Gastly, Hash, and Jumpkin, the only interesting men there, got off in a corner and talked nothing but stocks. Since my last flyer, that has been a delicate subject with me, and I sought peace basking in the benign smile of old Bishop Bumble, who, over his cognac, discoursed, at great length, on his new scheme for a church race-track. He argued that as long as people had to have racing, it would be best to place the control of the sport in proper hands. The present odds were manifestly unfair, he declared, and with upright bookies in the ring, the public could have an honest run for its money, which would make the track immensely popular and insure its success as a business proposition. He would allow only ten-per-cent. dividends on the stock of the operating company, and all over that would be set aside as a fund with which to start new church tracks in different parts of the country. An interesting idea, indeed. There were one or two points about which I wanted to take issue with the distinguished divine, but Garish began to lead the way to the drawing-room. So I was mighty glad, after I had stood around for ten minutes, looking at the women, to feel Gladys tugging at my sleeve; to be able to tell our hostess what a charming evening I had had; to be able to go home. As Shakespeare or Milton, or whoever it was, said, "There is no place like home." From this period of his life on, Mr. Mudison seems to devote much less of his time than formerly to writing down his experiences, impressions, and thoughts. His diary, if such it could be called, becomes more fragmentary than ever. Particularly is he silent regarding the summer at Wheatley Hills. There is one mention of his having purchased an incubator, and a few thoughts on the annual nuisance of moving from town to country. When he picks up his life-narrative again, he is back on Lexington Avenue, and beyond a hint that he is looking forward to breeding Irish terriers next year, there is no clew to the events of his rural life.