, and the curate, their dine-and-sleep
guest, sat opposite the bishop and farthest from the warmth. As a curate
this position was his due. Some day he also would be a bishop, and then
he too would know what it was to intercept the glow.

The curate was looking dubiously into the recesses of an egg. His fine
Anglican features underwent a series of contortions.

"I am afraid," said the bishop, "that that egg is not a good one."

"You are right, my lord," said the curate. "It is not only bad, it's
alive. I think it's the worst egg that was ever offered me."

II.

The wounded soldier lay in his deck-chair placidly smoking his hundredth
cigarette that day. He was not naturally a smoker, but cigarettes
arrived in enormous numbers and something had to be done with them.

His visitor sat beside him, note-book in hand. "Yes?" he remarked.

"And then," said the soldier, "came the order to charge. We fixed
bayonets and rushed at the Bosches like mad. It was glorious--like the
best kind of football match."

The visitor took it all down, and more.

"I remember bayonetting two men," said the soldier, "and then I remember
nothing else. And that's six months ago. Still, I'm getting well, and
then there's only one thing on earth that I really want with a
passionate desire ..."

"I know! I know!" said the visitor, moistening his pencil.

"Never to see any more war as long as I live," the soldier continued.

III.

The aged artist sat in his luxurious studio surrounded by his
masterpieces--that is, by the pictures he had never been able to sell.

The gem of the collection stood on an easel in the middle of the room;
while a connoisseur, hat in hand, inspected it closely,
enthusiastically, breathlessly. Then, coming over to where the artist
was resting, he sat down opposite to him and in a voice trembling with
emotion asked, "Tell me, how _do_ you mix your colours?"

There was a deep silence, almost painful in its intensity. A drawing-pin
fell with a deafening crash.

The venerable painter stood up with a calm and leonine expression. "I
use an ivory palette knife," he said.

IV.

The shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden. It was a warm
spring evening. The old sun-dial had just struck seven.

The poet threw aside his book and called his Airedale terrier; the dog,
responding in time, eventually reached his master's knee.

Seizing his opportunity, the representative of the Press observed, "You
are, I s