"Suppose," said he, "you had invited a man to stay with you for the week-end, had motored him down from town on the Friday night and given him dinner and a nice big bed, and on Saturday more meals and more bed, and on Sunday still more meals and still more bed, and on the Monday morning a nice yellow-and-white poached egg all to himself." "I quite appreciate all that," said I. "And suppose, while he was still sitting at your table and working his way through the bit of toast where the egg once sat, you received a letter from him." "A letter from me?" I cried. "You said your thanks would be expressed in a letter, but the promptitude of it has surprised even yourself, hasn't it? I should have received it yesterday, but that there is no Sunday post, happily." "You remember I said I was very grateful," said I, still not understanding. "And I said that gratitude had a queer way of expressing itself sometimes," said he, handing over the letter at last. "Read it aloud," he added; "I find the style original." "Harley Street, W. 25th April, 1914," I read. "Thomas Wreford, Esquire, debtor to John Everall. For professional services, 1912 to 1913, thirty-eight guineas." "Go on," he said. "The postscript is where your gratitude becomes the most exuberant." "Your attention will oblige," I finished. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked with a smile. "I prefer not to," said I, also smiling tentatively. There was a silence. "However," said Wreford eventually, "let us say no more about it." At this my smile became firmer and more expansive. "Let us agree," he said significantly, "to let bygones be bygones." My smile died out suddenly, as smiles do on a Monday morning. * * * * * "In practice yesterday Mr. Hilton did 72 in a three-hole match." _Liverpool Daily Post._ We must challenge him at once. * * * * * HIGHWAY LOOT. Ah! the lapse of courtly manners, Ah! the change from knighthood's code Since the day when oil and spanners Ousted horseflesh from the road! This I realised most fully Last week-end at Potter's Bar When a beetle-flattening bully Held me up in Laura's car. "Where," I shouted, "are the graces, Officer, of days long dead? Never mind how hot our pace is, Conjure up the past instead; Dream of chaises and postilions, Turnpike bars that ope and shut; Try to get some more resilience Into your confounded nut. "Blooms are bursting in the covers Even as they burst to-day (Not to mention tyres); two lovers Post to Scotland, let us say; Sudden from the hedge comes TURPIN, Pistols cocked and debonair; Both the horses stand up perpen- dicularly in the air.