M. Flair knows that the game is up. He realizes, with the instinct of a lifetime's experience, that no matter what he can say Madame will have nothing but the unsuitable magnificence worn by this most marvellous of mannequins. The artist in him wars with the business man. He feels that he should forbid it. Refuse to sell. Explain to Madame that she will not look like the Golden Girl; that she is deluding herself. Yet why? Madame, with a woman's swift knowledge of unspoken things, says: "So you think it's a bit too--too young?" She appears frank, careless; but there is such a touch of hardiness in her voice, velvet over steel. It is a challenge to M. Flair to say "Yes," and what man would have the moral courage? "My dear lady," he says with uplifted hands. "What a ridiculous idea!" Then, when she has gone, he says to me: "You see how it is--O mon Dieu!" * * * "Yes, but the Golden Girl," I say. "How did anything so beautiful happen in the world? The racehorse lines of her, the slimness, the strength. Is she one of these exiled princesses? She must stand on a pyramid of good breeding." "Oh, no," replies M. Flair; "her father was, I believe, a coal-porter somewhere in London. If only her accent were a little better she might ... the stage ... success ... but--O _mon Dieu_, these women who do not know themselves!" So ends an ordinary little comedy of a London day. St. Antholin's I went into a City church the other day to hear a sermon that has been going on for three hundred and twenty years! St. Mary Aldermary (not Aldermanbury) is an attractive Wren church tucked away on the north side of Queen Victoria Street. When I entered I found about forty middle-aged men and twelve women. They were sitting dotted about the church listening to a clergyman who was leaning earnestly over the pulpit talking about sin, the devil, and St. Paul. It was luncheon-hour in the City. It was also raining with ghastly persistence, and I thought at first that this congregation of fifty numbered many who might have sought refuge from the weather. A second glance assured me that this was an unworthy thought; here was an audience of devout, middle-aged City men with every mark on them of regular attendance. The rows of bald or grizzled heads were inclined towards the speaker, every word was followed with deep interest, save in one corner, where a little old man in a frock coat appeared to slumber. "And what does St. Paul say...." The voice echoed round the church, and I smiled to think that I was listening to one of the longest sermons on record--a sermon that has been in progress for three hundred and twenty years! It happened like this. * * *