In the superlatively able fifth number, eagerly anticipated from Downing Street to Wilhelmstrasse, a trenchant leader demonstrated that, when the King should come from over the water to establish His proletarian theocracy, no ministers could be found better for His projects than those who made up the present Government. It was signed with a modest _ff_. Consols soared to a firm 51½. CHAPTER XIII CHAMPAIGN As the Lent term moved unimpeded to its prepaschal end, Gaveston was faced with an inevitable query. Where was he to pass the Vacation? Aided by a shelf of Black’s Beautiful Books and the rarer writings of Mr. Edward Hutton, he weighed the relative charms of Cefalu and Auch, Nikchitch and Gijon, Châlons and Charenton, Parknasilla and Portobello. All very well in their foreign way, but he had his future to consider. Should he not rather accept a few of those innumerable invitations to British Country Houses that were stuck in the mirror above the fireplace in his Malmaison Lodge study? David had often protested against his friend’s wasteful habit of treating invitations as useless but ornamental, not even answering Commands from exiled Royalties. (The fame of _The Mongoose_ had reached Cannes and Twickenham.) But Gaveston would have none of it. “No, David,” he would always answer, “they aren’t wasted. The only invitations worth having are the second ones.” Besides, in the dear, far-off days of Karlsbad and Knocke and Karsino his mother had often nonchalantly warned him against the trickeries of foreign titles. (There had been a Polish Prince once whom Gaveston was already learning to call “Daddy” when he turned out to be a Turkish Bath attendant absconding from Arkansas.…) At first Gaveston intended to put all the invitations into the waste-paper basket, and draw one (or perhaps two) out, leaving the choice of the lucky hostess to chance, but the sight of a letter written in Black Letter on vellum paper made him hesitate. Was it not too dangerous a lottery? He took the letter up and read-- _Telegrams: Novena, Wilts._ _Stations: Highchurch and Deane._ _Minsterby Priory, Abbot’s Acre, Wilts, Eng._ _Vigil of St. Quinquagesima._ _Dear Mr. ffoulis_,-- _The Baron and I would be happy beyond words if we could count you among our quite tiny party for Holy Week and Eastertide. The Baron, of course, is a cousin of dear Prenderby Rooke (the financier, you know), who had a lot of business with your step-father in the old days. So we aren’t exactly strangers, are we? Do come._ _Afftely. yrs._ _(Baroness) Leah Finqulestone._