My wife was certainly ruffled, and, more than that, she was mystified. She could not understand it at all.

"And this is the second time," she said.

"Have you questioned the servants?" I asked.

"It is not likely that my servants would amuse themselves by throwing lumps of coal on the drawing-room carpet," she replied, "not being lunatics. But as a matter of fact I have questioned them."

"It is the sort of thing a playful kitten might do," I suggested. "Or a puppy perhaps."

"No, they couldn't have lifted the tongs, and the tongs were in it too, and three walking-sticks. It must have been children, I suppose; but I don't think there have been any children in the house."

I found her the same afternoon studying some scratched hieroglyphics on the gravel in front of the house. It was quite an elaborate design with squares and circles and curving lines, and with a wobbly streak running through it. And that evening she announced once and for all that the house was bewitched and she gave it up. She had found a loofah, two sponges and some cakes of soap elaborately arranged in a pattern on the bathroom floor.

She had not yet gathered, as I had, that it was Sinclair and the Reverend Henry. I do not think that these two can have been properly trained in their youth to put away their toys when they had finished with them, as all tidy children should. They had no right to go out suddenly and play tennis, leaving the drawing-room carpet in that condition.

I had seen it coming on for some days. As soon as Henry has spent his first half-hour on the newspapers he is ripe to explain in detail the exact disposition of the Allied forces and "what they are evidently driving at." And the thing is getting very complicated. He cannot make you understand. He tries to draw maps on the back of envelopes, but his drawing is pitiable, and then naturally he reaches out at any object that happens to be lying on the table, planks it down for Paris or Verdun, and gets seriously to work. He and Sinclair were sitting before the unlit fire in the drawing-room when Sinclair put forth his brilliant hypothesis about a flanking movement on Von KlÜck's right. Henry was quite certain it was wrong. He was down on his knees in a moment grabbing pieces of coal.

"Look here," he said. "There's ChÂlons; and that shovel is Soissons. You must not forget that the Ardennes lie in behind here"—realistically represented by a heap of logs from the wood-basket—"and that is the Meuse. Of course it isn't quite so straight as that really"—he put the poker in position—"but that is the line of it. Very well. Can't you see that what he is at is to nip this force here between two fires? By Jove, the tongs will do splendidly for that. Might have been made for it. So. Well, if Joffre is any good—Stop a bit"—he filled both hands with coal—"move your chair back. There, that's Paris, and the edge of the fender is the Marne. Well, if Joffre is not asleep his game is obviously——"

"Stop a bit," said Sinclair. "You've left out the Crown Prince."

"No, I haven't. That's him there in the work-basket. And you must remember that there are Uhlans all over the place." (I think that it must have been the Uhlans that chiefly exacerbated my wife when she came to clear up. They did reach pretty far afield, and there was quite a lot of them under the sofa.) "This is the Allied front"—Sinclair had brought him several walking-sticks by this time. "Now suppose we were to swing round like this—I say, do move your chair. Like this. Confound it, I didn't notice that little table was in the way. Why do people put silly little vases of flowers on tables? Mop it up, will you? Of course French is here. You must keep your eye on French. But——"

"What about these lines of communication?"

Henry paused. "Well, there's always the Belgians. I'm afraid we'll have to move the piano. Just give it a heave at the other end, will you? That'll do. Those pianola records are just the thing. No, not so near together. So. Now you see how it works. The whole thing from here to here moves sideways."

"Stop a bit," says Sinclair. "You're moving Paris sideways. Whatever they may do to it when it falls—if it ever does—I don't think they'll move it sideways."

Now that the Reverend Henry is no longer permitted to play with coals in the drawing-room or make maps on the gravel he has found an outlet on the breakfast-table. But he is not allowed to start till after the meal is over, ever since he got down early one morning and had the whole place laid out in army corps and fortresses, with a horrid tangle of knives and forks, cruet-stands, rolls, egg-cups, plates and coffee-pots, at the point where the main action was going on in the centre.

But he is not at all satisfied with the breakfast-table. He has to crowd things terribly close together at one end in order to have room for the Eastern theatre; and Posen (a toast-rack) keeps falling off the edge.

The Kirkintilloch Herald describes the manoeuvres of a submarine thus:—

Suggested song: "Get out and Get under."

We cannot decide whether this is an example of Commercial pessimism or Military optimism.