Omitting several super-emotional lifetimes, let us speak of a certain day not very remote when I stood, bereft of all sea power, at the top of St. James's Street, considering what was the very best worst thing to do to a body which was bored with the reaction that follows four years' strife upon the narrow seas. I fingered my beard meditatively. Yes, after all there was Alphonse. I had almost forgotten him. I turned my steps towards his exclusive retreat. I entered in, and behold! there as of yore, clothed in his samite raiment, stood the incomparable Alphonse. He had returned. Yet in appearance he was not quite the Alphonse of old. There was something less resilient about him, something more enduring had crept into his personality; his elasticity had somehow turned to bronze. He was slightly grey. Nevertheless he greeted me with a Gallic warmth that gave refreshment to my jaded spirit. "But M'sieu would be shaved.... Yes, a beard was permissible in time of War, but in Peace--pouf! it was barbaric." I allowed myself to be robed and tucked comfortably into the chair. Alphonse busied himself with the instruments of his profession. "Five years ago it was another world, M'sieu," he said, churning a wooden bowl to mountains of lather. "It is never again the same. The Marne ... Verdun ... Soissons. If M'sieu permits I would like to tell him of those years." I nodded and he advanced upon me with the brush. He spoke of the retreat to Paris and the strategy of JOFFRE which so nearly overthrew three Prussian armies. He brandished his razor and swept the Boches back over the Marne, he swept them through Senlis, he swept them across the Aisne. His intensity was inspiring. The smouldering fires of bygone battles leapt into his eyes. But it was not the mesmeric shave of 1914. He apologised humbly and applied small pieces of plaster. The next morning we fought a swaying battle in front of Rheims, and for some few following mornings we skirmished about painlessly in the same vicinity. Then came a sanguinary excursion to Flanders which nearly put me into blue overalls. A few weeks of trench warfare gave me some respite and allowed my worst wounds to heal. Then came the epic of Verdun. At least it was to have come, but at the last moment I lost my nerve. To hear the story of that heroic defence from the lips of one who was concerned so intimately with it is one of my greatest desires. But I am a coward. I cannot face the extravaganza that Alphonse would improvise, neither dare I approach him for a mere haircut and so confess to having deserted his other form of artistry. Yesterday I purchased a safety-razor and a packet of new blades. * * * * * [Illustration: _Mary (stricken with remorse as minnow approaches her hook)._ "OH! OH! OH! I DON'T WANT TO CATCH IT; ITS MUMMY WOULD MISS IT SO."] * * * * * A LITTLE SUPPER WITH THE BORGIAS. "FRUIT SALAD.