"This dupartment is both my joy an' my sorrer," said "Joe" pensively, digging his arm deep into the soft depths. "I salves the story o' 'Arseen Lupin' an' a Gieves joolry catalog--both compleet--this mornin', an' I've laid by some 'Merican papers (Pittsburg, I b'leeve) fer yu, sir. But th' tantylysin thing about it is what's allus missin'. Jest look at this, fer instance, sir," and he fished a greasy fragment of paper from a pocket of his overall and handed it to me. In a highly appropriate "atmosphere"--with the scent of fat to starboard, the fragrance of bones to port, and the ineffable odours of the "crumbs" grudgingly allotted to the "X. Y. Z.'s" piggery rising from the depths of the tub on the rim of which I sat--I read the following, just this and no word more:-- A SWEET SMELLING SAVOUR I Some rave about the subtle scents of Araby and Ind, Of camphor and of ambergris, of sandal-wood and musk, The poet chants the praises of the violet and the rose, And stately lilies standing by the dew-drenched lawn at dusk. II My lady loves the lavender with, slender ... The lover loves whatever perfume ... The cow-slips simple fragrance ... The pine-wood's spicy ... III But, far beyond all ... The smell of ... * * * * * "It fair to druv me crazy huntin' fer that missin' peece," said "Joe" with a hurt sort of "'twas-ever-thus" expression in his eyes; "an' I felt it espeshul, sir, becus I writes po'try and songs a bit mysel'. 'E was jest workin' up tu a climacks, an' I'm wonderin' all th' time what it wuz that smelt better'n 'ambygris' an' musk an' roses an' lilies an' all the rest. D'yu spose, sir, it cud a bin that stuff they put in brilyantin?" and he ran stubby fingers through his hair in an apparent endeavour to waft me a whiff of the odour which had been there the Sunday before the last coaling. A frivolous impulse prompted me to bid him ask the "X. Y. Z.'s" pigs, but the look in his eyes sobered me, and I said I felt sure it must have been "Attar of Roses," as that was said to be the most expensive of all perfumes. "Joe" returned the fragment to his pocket, a brooding shadow sitting on his brow. "Ther' wuz only one thing ever fussed me more'n not locatin' th' end o' that pome, sir," he said sadly, beginning to fumble anew, "and that wuz this." The greasy fragment which he unfolded and handed to me barely hung together at the blackened creases, but--well, no one who has ever watched wardroom firelight throw its rosy glow over the pinky pages of _La Vie Parisienne_ will ever fail to recognise the flimsiest wisp of it blowing before a winter gale.