between the landings, says it won't do to tax raw
commodities. What, exactly, is a raw commodity? Mrs. Van
Challaby says men are raw commodities till you marry them;
after they've struck Mrs. Van C., I can fancy they pretty
soon become a finished article. Certainly she's had a good
deal of experience to support her opinion. She lost one
husband in a railway accident, and mislaid another in the
Divorce Court, and the current one has just got himself
squeezed in a Beef Trust. "What was he doing in a Beef
Trust, anyway?" she asked tearfully, and I suggested that
perhaps he had an unhappy home. I only said it for the sake
of making conversation; which it did. Mrs. Van Challaby said
things about me which in her calmer moments she would have
hesitated to spell. It's a pity people can't discuss fiscal
matters without getting wild. However, she wrote next day to
ask if I could get her a Yorkshire terrier of the size and
shade that's being worn now, and that's as near as a woman
can be expected to get to owning herself in the wrong. And
she will tie a salmon-pink bow to its collar, and call it
"Reggie," and take it with her everywhere--like poor Miriam
Klopstock, who WOULD take her Chow with her to the bathroom,
and while she was bathing it was playing at she-bears with
her garments. Miriam is always late for breakfast, and she
wasn't really missed till the middle of lunch.

However, I'm not going any further into the Fiscal Question.
Only I should like to be protected from the partner with a
weak red tendency.