Other days they spent in caracoling, Mounted each upon a mettled barb, Or along the streets serenely strolling Clad in semi-oriental garb; HENRY with a cummerbund suburban; GEORGE disguised to look like ENVER BEY; While a kilt surmounted by a turban Veiled the massive contours of TAY PAY. Daily they partook of ripe and juicy Fruit, and Mocha coffee and kibobs; Daily they conversed with EL SENOUSSI And a lot of other native nobs; HENRY practised Algerine fandangos; GEORGE upon the tom-tom learned to play; And a dervish taught ten Arab tangos To the light fantastical TAY PAY. Whither will they wander next, I wonder? Not, I hope and pray, within the reach Of the tribes who live on loot and plunder, Fanatics who practise what they preach. Fancy if these horrible disturbers, Swooping on our countrymen astray, Touaregs and Bedouins and Berbers, Carried off the succulent TAY PAY! Hardly had this agonizing presage Taken shape within my tortured brain, When good REUTER flashed the welcome message, "Chancellor Returns," across the main. Neptune, be thy waters calm, not choppy, As they speed them on their homeward way, GEORGE and HENRY and, bowed down with "copy," Our unique arch-eulogist, TAY PAY. * * * * * THE MARRIED MAN'S ADVANTAGE. Personally I think too much respect is paid to age. There is nothing clever in being old--nothing at all. On the other hand, youth has a charm of its own. Besides, twenty-two is not young; you wouldn't think me so if you really knew me. The doubt arises, I suppose, from a certain innate light-heartedness. It is really rather pathetic. Daphne chooses to see humour in the situation, which is very absurd of her, and, as I point out, merely reflects on herself. Surely she doesn't wish to admit that it is foolish to love her. And that, to make a clean breast of it, is exactly what I do, and do madly. I follow her about, reverently watching her every movement, hanging on her every word--no light task. And my reward? A scant unceremonious "Hallo!" when we meet; a scanter "Night" or "Morning," according to the circumstances, when we part. A brave smile from me and she is gone, an unwitting spectator of a real tragedy. Up to a few days ago I was content to bear with my lot, but last week I rebelled. It was at a dance, after supper. Daphne had certainly shown a sort of affection for me, motherly rather than otherwise, I think; nevertheless an affection. But then, and not for the first time, I had seen her flirting with another. I decided to lose my temper. I went into the smoke-room and deliberated very close to the fire. In five minutes I left the room heated. I found Daphne at once. "Our dance," I said. "We will sit out." My manner must have been rather terrifying. At any rate we sat out. "Daphne," I began, "I am in a mood that brooks no trifling. For weeks I have loved you. You spurn me."