th enthusiasm, "to coax that word or
thing, or whatever it is, back to the tip of your tongue and beyond
it. So let's have all you know about it. Firstly, then, it begins with
a 'W.'"

"Yes, it begins with a 'W,' and I feel it's got something to do with
Lord RHONDDA."

"That doesn't help much. So far as I can see, everything now is more
or less nearly connected with Lord RHONDDA."

"But my forgotten thing isn't bread or meat. It's something remoter."

"Is it Mr. KENNEDY-JONES?" said Francesca. "He's just resigned, you
know."

"No, it's not Mr. KENNEDY-JONES. How could it be? Mr. KENNEDY-JONES
doesn't begin with a 'W.'"

"If I were you, I shouldn't insist too much on that 'W.' I should keep
it in the background, for it's about ten to one you'll find in the
end that it doesn't begin with a 'W.' At any rate we've made two short
advances; we know it isn't Mr. KENNEDY-JONES, because he doesn't begin
with a 'W,' and we are not very sure that it begins with a 'W.'"

"Keep quiet," I said, flushing with anticipation. "I'm getting it ...
your last remark has put me on the track.... Silence.... Ah ... it's
_DEVONSHIRE CREAM!_ There--I've got it at last. I feel an overwhelming
desire for Devonshire cream."

"The sort that begins with a 'W.'"

"Well, it's got a 'V' in it, anyhow."

"And it isn't Devonshire cream at all. It's really Cornish cream--at
least Mary Penruddock says it is."

"Cornish or Devonshire, that's what I must have, if Lord RHONDDA'S
rules allow it."

"All right, I'll get you a pot or two if I can. But are you sure you
won't forget it again?"

"If I do," I said, "I can always remember it by the W.'"

R.C.L.

* * * * *

THE CHANGE CURE.

["The only way to make domestic service popular is for
a duchess to become a tweeny-maid."--_Evening Paper_.]

It may be that a modern _Mene, Mene_
Will force the Duchess to become a tweeny;
But, ere this democratic transformation
Secures the "old nobility's" salvation,
Some other changes are not less but more
Needful to aid our progress in the War.

For instance, with what rapture were we blest
If Some-one gave his nimble tongue a rest
And, turning Trappist, stanched the fearsome gush
Of egotistic and thrasonic slush;
Or if Lord X. eschewed his daily speeches
And took to canning Californian peaches;
Or if egregious LYNCH could but abstain
From "ruining along the illimitable inane"
At