Were it not wise, dear WILLIAM, ere the day
When Revolution goes for crowns and things,
To cut your loss betimes and come this way
And start a coterie of Exiled Kings?
You might (the choice of safe retreats is poor)
Do worse than join me in this happy land,
And spend your last phase, careless, if obscure,
With your devoted TINO hand-in-hand.

O. S.

* * * * *

MONSIEUR JOSEPH.

On the day that I left hospital, with a month's sick leave in hand, I
went to dine at my favourite Soho restaurant, the Mazarin, which I
always liked because it provided an excellent meal for an extremely
modest sum. But this evening my steps turned towards the old place
because I wanted a word with Monsieur Joseph, the head-waiter.

I found him the same genial soul as ever, though a shade stouter perhaps
and greyer at the temples, and I flatter myself that it was with a smile
of genuine pleasure that he led me to my old table in a corner of the
room.

When the crowd of diners had thinned he came to me for a chat.

"It is indeed a pleasure to see M'sieur after so long a time," said he,
"for, alas, there are so many others of our old clients who will not