eem to help _us_ much. Perhaps we had better examine modern
literature next. Liz, it's your turn."

Elizabeth rose and said that in order to prosecute her enquiry she had
dressed as a man and been taken for a reviewer.

"I have read new books pretty steadily for the past five years," said
she. "Mr. Wells is the most popular living writer; then comes Mr. Arnold
Bennett; then Mr. Compton Mackenzie; Mr. McKenna and Mr. Walpole may be
bracketed together." She sat down.

"But you've told us nothing!" we expostulated. "Or do you mean that
these gentlemen have greatly surpassed Jane-Elliot and that English
fiction is----where's that review of yours? Oh, yes, 'safe in their
hands.'"

"Safe, quite safe," she said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "And
I'm sure that they give away even more than they receive."

We were all sure of that. "But," we pressed her, "do they write good
books?"

"Good books?" she said, looking at the ceiling. "You must remember," she
began, speaking with extreme rapidity, "that fiction is the mirror of
life. And you can't deny that education is of the highest importance,
and that it would be extremely annoying, if you found yourself alone at
Brighton late at night, not to know which was the best boarding house to
stay at, and suppose it was a dripping Sunday evening--wouldn't it be
nice to go to the Movies?"

"But what has that got to do with it?" we asked.

"Nothing--nothing--nothing whatever," she replied.

"Well, tell us the truth," we bade her.

"The truth? But isn't it wonderful," she broke off--"Mr. Chitter has
written a weekly article for the past thirty years upon love or hot
buttered toast and has sent all his sons to Eton----"

"The truth!" we demanded.

"Oh, the truth," she stammered, "the truth has nothing to do with
literature," and sitting down she refused to say another word.

It all seemed to us very inconclusive.

"Ladies, we must try to sum up the results," Jane was beginning, when a
hum, which had been heard for some time through the open window, drowned
her voice.

"War! War! War! Declaration of War!" men were shouting in the street
below.

We looked at each other in horror.

"What war?" we cried. "What war?" We remembered, too late, that we had
never thought of sending anyone to the House of Commons. We had
forgotten all about it. We turned to Poll, who had reached the history
shelves in the London Library, and asked her to enlighten us.

"Why," we cried,