A few weeks afterwards he received a neat little card folded in two, on the outside of which was printed a vile semblance of the Royal Coat of Arms and “National Registration Act, 1915,” and inside a certificate of the Registration of (_a_) John Baltazar, (_b_) Philosophical Investigator—for as such had he irritably described himself—(_c_) of Spendale Farm, Water-End. There was a space for the signature of Holder, and below it in great capitals “God Save the King.” On the back were directions as to change of address. “God knows what’s coming over the country,” said he. “It appears that a free-born Englishman has got to carry about his police papers, as people have to do in disgusting countries like Germany and Russia. What about you, Quong Ho? Have you got a pretty little document like this?” “I am registered as an alien,” replied Quong Ho. “It seems to me,” said Baltazar, “that when I used to gas to you about our free British institutions I was nothing but an ignorant liar.” “By no means, sir,” replied Quong Ho politely. “The keynote of the modern world is change. What was true of material things yesterday is a lie to-day.” “How did you discover that?” “I assume the little town of Water-End to be but a microcosm of Great Britain.” “Why,” laughed Baltazar, “what signs of change do you see there?” Quong Ho remained for a moment silent, and his face assumed its Oriental impassivity. If he reported to his master the astounding events that were taking place, even at Water-End, whose quiet High Street was a-bustle with newly fledged soldiery from the moorland camp three miles on the further side, he would not only risk the dissolution of the establishment, but would be guilty of filial disobedience, which was impiety. And the European War, after all, how could it concern him, Li Quong Ho? Perhaps, too, his master, foreseeing the tempest, particularly desired to take shelter and hear nothing at all about it. He was fortunate enough, however, to find a perfectly true reply to Baltazar’s question. He smiled in some relief; for an intellectual Chinaman, trained in the lofty morality of the Chinese classics, does not willingly lie. “It is a woman and not a man who now delivers the letters in Water-End.” Baltazar continued to laugh: “They’ll be driving the motor-cars soon.” “I’ve seen them doing it,” said Quong Ho. “I’m not surprised,” said his master. “They were tending that way a year ago. These new women are out for the devirilization of man. Perhaps by this time they’re in Parliament, passing firework legislation and playing the devil with all our laws and customs. You haven’t yet heard, by any chance, whether the occupation of monthly nursing is confined exclusively to the male sex?” “The enactment, if such there be,” replied Quong Ho solemnly, “is not, to my knowledge, in force in this remote locality.”