war, had taken the unprecedented step of holding an autumn election for all candidates duly proposed and seconded. Baltazar found invited to meet him a little party of influential members. He went back to Godalming forgetful of Weatherley’s idiocy. A few days afterwards he met Weatherley by appointment at his chambers in the Temple. A group of publicists outside professional journalism, of which Baltazar guessed his friend to be one of the initiative forces, were about to bring out a new weekly review, devoted to the international phases of the war; to all racial questions from Greenland to New Guinea. Its international outlook would be unlimited, but, of course, it would pursue a relentless anti-German policy. Would Baltazar care to join the band? If so, would he attend a meeting of the founders of the Review that afternoon? “My dear fellow,” cried Baltazar, holding out both his hands, “it’s meat and drink to me.” “You’ll take up the Far Eastern end of the thing,” said Weatherley. “I’ll write about China till I’m dead, if you like,” said Baltazar, “so long as I don’t have to go back to the infernal country.” Again, after the meeting, Baltazar returned to Godalming in a glow. Thanks to Weatherley, he had at last got a footing in the Great Struggle. In a telephone talk with Marcelle he told her all about it. He heard a ripple of laughter. “Where does the fun come in?” he asked. Her voice said: “You’re so young and enthusiastic. You ought to be the son and Godfrey the father.” “By the way,” said he, “what’s the matter with Godfrey? He’s about as cheerful as a police-court in a fog.” Marcelle, who could not betray Godfrey’s confidence, attributed his depression to the tediousness of his recovery and the uncertainty of the future. “Of course, of course!” replied Baltazar penitently. “I’m a selfish beast, never entering into other people’s feelings. I must brighten things up for him.” * * * * * The opportunity came very much sooner than Baltazar had any reason to anticipate, in their meeting with Lady Edna Donnithorpe in the lounge of the Carlton. Young, beautiful, royally assured, she advanced laughing to Baltazar. “What about your promise, Mr. Baltazar? Pie-crust?”