"Marvellous," I murmured. "And how do you think of all your variations on the one stimulating theme?" "Ah!" he said, "that is my secret." He tapped his massive forehead. "It wants a bit of doing, but I think I may say that up to date I have delivered the goods." "You may," I said. "Have you no assistants?" He flushed angrily and I changed the subject. "In your spare time----" I began. "I have none," he said. "I want none." "But surely now and then," I urged, "after office hours?" "I never relax," he said. "If I am not writing I am worshipping. I walk up and down on the other side of the street, gazing this way, wondering and adoring." What a man! "Now and then," I said, "you puzzle me a little. The columns in the evening papers go fairly straight to the point, but you are not always so direct. One now and then has to search for the true purpose of the article." He bent his fine brows in perplexity. "As when?" he asked. "Well," I said, "those third leaders in _The Times_, for example. I often read them without making perfectly sure which department of the great House you are recommending: to which of its varied activities you are drawing particular attention." He looked more bewildered. "The third leaders in _The Times_?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Don't you write those?" "No," he replied with emphasis. "Great Heavens!" I said, "I'm very sorry if I've hurt you. But I always assumed that you did." The simultaneous ringing of the three telephones warned me that my time was up and I rose to go. "Good-bye," he said, "Good-bye. You know where to go if you want anything, don't you? No matter what it is--ties, socks, dress--suits, scent, afternoon tea, civility, perfection. You know where to go?"--and he bowed me out. And that is how I met Callisthenes. * * * * * [Illustration: "'Arf a mo, Chawley; let's wait an' see 'im sit down."] * * * * * BLUDYARD. Mr. Rudyard Kipling's few remarks, made beneath the blue sky of the Empire at Tunbridge Wells, have not yet lost their effect. The famous orator's letter-bag is daily crowded with communications from total strangers who have striven in vain to resist the impulse to tell him what they think of him and his speech. "I understand from the local paper that you're an author," writes one correspondent from Haggerston; "if you can write like you can speak, your books ought to sell in hundreds." "Your speech was quite good," writes another, "so far as it went; the only fault I have to find with it is that it was not strong enough, Sir, not strong enough. The blackguards!" An envelope of pale purple, gently perfumed, contained that well-known work (now in its tenth thousand), "Gentle Words, and How to Use Them. By Amelia Papp." We understand that the receipt of this famous pamphlet had a tremendous effect upon Mr. Kipling.