Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Park, is too much? Don't cry, darling;
it will never be as bad as that. And why? Because, according to that
incredibly stupid young man, Robert, Piccadilly, Bond Street and the
Park will then be the back streets, in which no decent people, except
out-of-date, old-fashioned fogeys like ourselves, would ever consent
to be seen. So it is really myself who is still alone. Yours, R.

* * * * *

LOVELY WOMAN.

If the casual gods send inquiring strangers into my camp, let them
(the intruders) be civil, please, or at least be male. Citizens I can
at once wave away with a regretful _nescio vos_; foot-officers are
decently reserved in their thirst for knowledge of an essentially
Secret Service; but officers' wives--

I was growing to like the Royal Gapshire Cyclists (H.D.), my
neighbours in the next field, until last Friday, when they perpetrated
their Grand Athletic Tournament. Quite early in the day twos and
threes of subalterns, with here and there a company commander,
dribbled across with a diffident wish to be shown round the guns, and
round we went. By the ninth tour I was wearying fast of the cicerone
act, and hoping they would not mistake my dutiful reticence for
stuffiness. They had made me free of a mess that has its points. Then,
towards tea-time, She came. The Major, who brought, introduced Her,
apologised (not for bringing Her) and withdrew. He was due to start
the Three-Legged Obstacle Relay. She, on the other hand, was _so_
interested, and _would_ I, etc.? Would I not!