“Never mind,” said Weatherley. “Leave things in my hands. I’ll fix up Pennyfeather. If he persists in his obscurantism, owing to a desire to save his face, I’ll send the article to Jesson of _The Imperial Review_, who’ll jump at it.” “I accept your help gratefully,” replied Baltazar. “But all you’ve said confirms me in my opinion that your friend Pennyfeather is a lazy, incompetent hound. He and his jejune magazine can starve to death.” He laughed after a while at his own vehemence. They talked of the points at issue. Presently Weatherley said: “After all, you’re two years behindhand in Chinese affairs. Chinese adherence to the Allied Cause is of vast importance. Why don’t you go out again on behalf of the Government and pick up the threads?” Baltazar burst out: “I go back to China? That God-forgotten country of dead formulas, in which I’ve wasted the prime of my life? No, my dear friend, never again. I’m here at last, among my own people, in the most enthralling moments in the history of the civilized world. For years I looked upon myself as a damned Chinaman, and now I’ve woke up to find myself English. And English I’m going to remain.” “But,” objected Weatherley, “by undertaking a Government mission in China, you can remain as English as you please.” Baltazar refused to consider the suggestion. England, his rediscovered country, was his appointed sphere of action. No more China for him as long as he lived. He went away almost angry with Weatherley for putting such an idea into his head. No doubt he might be useful out there: much more useful than a diplomatist like the arid ass who had written the article; but to bury himself there again and leave Godfrey and Marcelle and the throbbing wonders of his resurrection, was preposterous. As he descended Weatherley’s staircase a shiver of dismay ran down his spine. A walk through the streets restored his equanimity. Those crowds which once had seemed so alien, were now his brothers, all fired by the same noble aspirations. He would have liked to shake hands with the soldiers from far oversea, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, and thank them for their inspiring presence. The day was fine, the exhilaration of the Somme victories was in the air. The new mystery of the tanks exercised all London, which still showed the afterglow of the laughter caused by continued humoristic descriptions in the morning papers. A tank waddled up to a house filled with Germans, leaned against it in a comfortable way, and there was no more house and no more Huns. He heard scraps of conversation about them as he walked. Yes, Tennyson was right—a bit of a seer after all that Incarnation of Victorianism—when he remarked that fifty years in Europe were preferable to a cycle in Cathay. He went in gayer mood to lunch with Jackman at a club in the West End, for membership of which his host had proposed him. The club, like many London clubs, being hard hit by the