"But if it isn't," I called back, "and I do, we can put the money in the
Divorce Fund."

* * * * *

THE SORROWS OF A SUPER-PROFITEER.

[Bradford wool-spinners are stated to be unable to escape from the
deluge of wealth that pours upon them or avoid making profits of three
thousand two hundred per cent.]

And so you thought we simply steered
Great motor-cars to champagne dinners
And bought tiaras and were cheered
By hopes of breeding Epsom winners;
Eh, lad, you little knew the weird
Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners.

How hollow are those marble halls,
The place I built and deemed a show-thing,
Its terraces, its waterfalls--
Once more I hear that sound of loathing,
The bell rings and a stranger calls
To speak of underclothing.

They've bashed my offices to wrecks,
They've broke their way beyond the warders,
And now my country seat they vex,
They trample my herbaceous borders;