"But I got t' look after myself," she explained; "I'd be all done up if I hadn't they matches in the morning to light the fire and all. You wouldn't get no bath-water." "I want to smoke," I said obstinately. She kept her hand over the box of matches. She had not heard. I made intelligent signs illustrative of the lighting of a cigarette. Millie told me, in pure Cornish: "You can only get a box at a time now, and half-a-pound o' sugar I gets when I shows my card, and they do say we won't get that--only quarter soon. I'd like to get at that KAYSER! I'd smash him up, I would!" She said this in the kindest, most benign way, with a smile as nearly caressing as a smile without front teeth can be. "He'd come short off if I got to him! And he deserves it, I'm sure," she concluded, as she departed--with the matches.... A long walk over the Cornish cliffs in the gusty North wind from the Atlantic had made me drowsy, and as I sat before the fire my thoughts wandered from Russian politics and the Italian situation to Millie--and the "KAYSER": Millie, who was short of stature and round-backed, who showed her fifty-odd years unflinchingly to the world; Millie with her felt slippers and her overall and coarse hands; Millie, the possessor of a sugar-card--and the mighty War Lord, stern and implacable, trying to subdue the world to his will. And Millie only wished she could get near him to smash him up--"the KAYSER would come short off."... * * * * * The lamp-lit cottage room faded; the sound of November winds and swirling leaves outside died away. For a moment I peered through a greyish-blue moving mist--it might have been cigarette smoke; gradually I distinguished forms and colours beyond; then the fog lifted and I looked upon an electrically-lighted room, with the aspect of an office _de luxe_. There were telephones and file cases, typewriters and all the appurtenances of business operations; the furniture was massive and handsome, and carpets and hangings had every appearance of magnificence and costliness. I knew without thought that this was the private room of WILHELM of Prussia. He himself, standing with his back to the roaring log fire in the deep grate, was too like the cartoons in the English papers to be mistaken. The iron-grey hair and upturned moustache, the cold eyes and sardonic mouth were all there "as per invoice." He was even wearing an aggressively Prussian uniform, and kept his spiked helmet on his head and his sword hanging at his side. The CROWN PRINCE was in evidence, disguised as a Death's Head Hussar, and HINDENBURG was easily recognisable as he bristled with the nails which the admiring populace had hammered into him; the rest of the company were unknown to me. They were all engaged in a heated discussion when suddenly there came a knock at the door, a knock which, to me, was curiously familiar.