If it seems in these stories that there is a recurrent note on the necessity of artistic expression for the Old Country, the reason for it is that we came from the Dominions to a land we all knew, because English literature had made England our Mother-Country in the real sense of the word. It is the hope of many of us that the artists of Britain--whether they be writers, painters, or composers--will yet realize that the Empire looks to them, as well as to the knights of the air, to bridge the seas, and by their art make us feel as great a kinship in peace as we did in war. Dickens and Burns were more than writers; they were literature's ambassadors, and played no inconsiderable part in empire-building. Perhaps, as the study of ordinary people gripped by emotions which left no one ordinary, this volume of stories may be of some little interest. They filled many dull hours in the writing.... It would be a rich reward for the author if he could think that they do away with a few dull hours in the reading. ARTHUR BEVERLEY BAXTER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 1 II. PETITE SIMUNDE 97 III. THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 141 IV. THE AIRY PRINCE 191 V. MR. CRAIGHOUSE OF NEW YORK, SATIRIST 287 _The_ BLOWER _of_ BUBBLES I Snow was falling in Sloane Square, quarreling with rain as it fell. Lamps were gleaming sulkily in Sloane Square, as though they resented being made to work on such a night, and had more than a notion to down tools and go out of business altogether. Motor-cars were passing through Sloane Square, with glaring lights, sliding and skidding like inebriated dragons; and the clattering hoofs of horses drawing vagabond cabs sounded annoyingly loud in the damp-charged air of Sloane Square. It was Christmas Eve in Sloane Square, and the match-woman, the vender of newspapers, and the impossible road-sweeper were all exacting the largesse of passers-by, who felt that the six-penny generosity of a single night atoned for a year's indifference to their lot. People were wishing each other a merry Christmas in Sloane Square, as they struggled along under ungainly parcels. The muffin-man was doing an enormous trade. And I looked from my window and prayed for Aladdin's Lamp or the Magic Carpet, that I might place a thousand miles between myself and Sloane Square. There was a knock at the door. "Enter the Slave of the Lamp," said I, and the door opened to admit--my landlady, Mrs. Mulvaney. "Will you be dining in?" she said. Her Irish accent hardly helped the illusion of the all-potent slave. "And why not?" I asked. "Ach, nothing, sor. I only thought----" "An unwomanly thing to do, Mrs. Mulvaney." "You're afther being a strange one, dining alone on Christmas Eve." "Then join me, Mrs. Mulvaney."