"Don't you _love_ those quaint 'El Grecos'?" she went on. "He's quite a discovery, don't you think? My daughter Muriel, who hopes to get into the Slade School soon now, says she doesn't see how anybody _can_ see people differently from the way 'El Greco' saw people. And yet I don't know that I _quite_ like the idea of Muriel seeing _me_ like that, although she's _so_ clever...." I could not help thinking that in Mrs. Bletherwood's case the "El Greco" treatment would be an admirable corrective to a certain lateral expansion. "Besides," she continued in a confidential tone, "I've heard or read somewhere that there's just a doubt whether he distorted people on purpose or because there was something wrong with his eyes. If I thought it was astigmatism I would insist on taking Muriel to an oculist. I wonder what you think." I raised my teacup suggestively. Mrs. Bletherwood gasped. "You don't mean that he----" "Like a fish," I said. "Oh, how too disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "Fancy their having his pictures there at all. Such religious subjects too. I shall warn Muriel at once. I'm so thankful you told me...." Have I done a wrong to Señor DOMENICO THEOTOCOPULI ("El Greco")? Perhaps; but I hope it has prevented Miss Muriel Bletherwood from doing him a greater. * * * * * "Sun Sets This Morning 8.8 Sun Sets To-night 3.56" _Liverpool Paper_. Just as in London last Wednesday. * * * * * [Illustration: _Vicar's Wife_. "THE VICAR WAS ASKING ONLY THIS MORNING WHY YOU WEREN'T IN THE HABIT OF ATTENDING CHURCH." _Latest Inhabitant_. "WELL, YOU SEE, IT DOES SO CUT INTO ONE'S SUNDAYS."] * * * * * CURES FOR INSOMNIA. The following correspondence, clearly intended for the Editor of _The Daily Ailment_, has found its way into our letter-box. Another example of post-office inefficiency. SIR,--As a regular reader of your valuable journal I am always deeply interested in the views of your readers as expressed in its columns. The recent letters on the cure of insomnia have interested me particularly. Although I have read your paper for many years, always eaten standard bread, study most diligently each morning my lesson on Government wobble and waste, grow sweet peas, keep fowls, take my holidays early (in Thanet) and read the feuilleton, in short perform all the duties of an enthusiastic loyal Englishman, I cannot sleep. Yesterday I decided to try the remedies suggested by your readers. After inviting sleep with "a dish of boiled onions" I found that I must go to bed "without having eaten anything for five hours or so." This meant sitting up very late, but I found the time useful for taking "deep long breaths." Meanwhile I ran through the names of my friends alphabetically and emptied the feathers from my pillow, replacing them with hops. Sometimes a hop got mixed up in a "deep long breath," which was rather pleasant.