Nina laughed. It was a contemptuous, significant laugh. It seemed to dismiss the whole question of Joy's indignation as if it was as unimportant as an ignorant child's. It was the sharpest retort she could have made, and the most wounding. She went into the house after she had made it, leaving Joy alone.

Joy had a curious stifled feeling, as if there was n't enough air to breathe. She did n't believe Nina; she could n't believe Nina. The sense of Julia's love for Owen rested in her heart profoundly. Her friend's love was part of her life; half her renewed and liberated happiness was because she was with them, sharing the immensity of their gift. The quiet, prosperous garden was suddenly menaced by something strange that shook her spirit. The light lingered thin and ghostly on the yellowing leaves, as tentative and insecure as human thought.

What could she know of these two lives so close to her heart, and closer to each other's? The whole material world denied all knowledge of what went on behind it. She saw and

loved, and knew nothing. There was only one thing left she could do: she could at least prove to herself that Owen was with Julia.

She hurried breathlessly into the house and up the wide, shallow stairs. She never forgot the sweet, keen smell of roses which filled the hall. Julia had made pot-pourri, fresh and strong, and placed it in Chinese vases underneath the stairs.

Joy stopped for a moment outside Julia's door, with her heart beating loudly in her ears. There was no other sound. She knocked, and heard Julia's clear, unhesitating voice telling her to come in. The vast, bright room, all polish and shining, flowered cretonnes, seemed to her the emptiest place in the world. Julia lay serenely on her high, white bed by the open window, dressed in a delicate-green dressing-gown the color of the sea. She was never idle, and she hardly glanced up from an intricate piece of embroidery she was at work upon as Joy came toward her.

Julia was not expecting any one, and she was quite alone.

and of the early part of 1921 the British Labor party polled two fifths of all the votes cast; but when its Triple Alliance put its massive foot out on the bridge of a strike by the railway workers and by the transport workers in support of the miners, and found that the bridge was still shaky and unfinished, still too unpopular with the "middle classes," still not popular enough with the workers themselves,why, it pulled its massive and intelligent foot straight back off that bridge and stood flapping its ears and waiting.

It waits and waits and keeps looking for safe bridges. It gets advice from all quarters, angry advice, for instance, from Dean Inge and sympathetic advice, for instance, from the Bishop of Manchester.

Dean Inge seems to be very popular. He is "the gloomy dean," oi so Great Britain describes him and so revels in him. A word of gloom from Dean Inge is enough to brighten a whole day for the readers of any British newspaper. Last winter he morosely indicated the present attractiveness of the Labor party in Great Britain by saying that British times had changed since the times of the poet Cowper. The poet Cowper had said, "The person knows enough who knows a duke"; but today, said Dean Inge, a safer rule for an aspiring young man would be, "Marry an heiress and join the Labor party."

I do not know that the Bishop of Manchester is married to an heiress, if married at all. However, when I went to the head office of the British Labor party on Eccleston Square and asked Arthur Greenwood, who used to be a university professor, but is now managing secretary of all the Labor party's numerous "advisory committees," committees,"

whether or not the Labor party had any bishops in it along with all its professors and barristers and majorgenerals and so on, he said:

"Well, we have one man who is going to be a bishop. He 's going to be Bishop of Manchester. He's one of ours."

"Well," said I, "the king is head of the English Church. How will he like to have what we in America call a labor-skate' for a bishop under him?”

"Oh," said Greenwood, "Temple started well. He is a son of an Archbishop of Canterbury, and the king is quite used to him. He's the king's chaplain."

Yes, he was the king's chaplain. I feared that Greenwood was "joshing" me, or, as the English, in their purer speech, would say, "spoofing" me,-but he was not. Temple was the king's chaplain and a Labor party man, and was about to become Bishop of Manchester by and with the advice and consent of his Majesty's ministers, the chief of whom, the Right Honorable Lloyd George, was at that very moment calling on all his Majesty's good men and true to hold fast against the Labor party and prevent it from driving the coalition out of office and ruining the country. He was setting an example by intrusting a Labor party man with a bishopric.

Once upon a time and I mean by that beginning to indicate that I am without the slightest knowledge whether the anecdote following is true or not, though I heard it frequently told-there was a report made on "The Workers' Educational Association" by Sir Basil Somebody, who makes reports on all sorts of deadly social menaces more or less, as Mr. A. Mitchell Palmer used to do in this

country. Sir Basil resides in the upper levels of Scotland Yard, I think, and tracks radicals down from there to their mare's-nests, and comes back with documentary proofs of it.

Once he came back with a documentary proof of all the menacingness of the Workers' Educational Association, and it read so well that it was at once sent along, so the story says, to the king himself. The king looked it through, and then permitted himself, so the story continues, to be royally amused. He said:

"Sir Basil left out one point. The head of the Workers' Educational Association is my chaplain-Temple."

It may not be true that the king said it, but it is certainly true that Temple was head of the Workers' Educational Association; and the higher truth of the anecdote is that in Great Britain even the king himself may be able to check up and check down some alleged social menace by happening to know one of the menacers.

One day I went with an American friend to a luncheon party at which there were a British labor leader, an American admiral, and a British peeress. When the party was over, the American admiral said to me:

"I never invited a labor leader to my ship, but that man is a wonderful man, and I am going to invite him."

And he did. And on the way home my American friend that I had come with was full of wisdom about Great Britain's future. He said:

"You noticed the noble lady whose husband is in the House of Lords? You noticed that she and the labor leader were joking together all the time about things in her husband's politics and about things she knew all about in his trade-union? You noticed they

Of course I should not be thought to believe that everybody in England is cool and calm about everything or that England itself as a whole is always cool and calm and reasonable. On the contrary, I spent six weeks in Ireland.

On the subject of Ireland I think England is far from being an elephant. On that subject I think that England is a sort of moth-a great armored dragon of a moth, but a moth-flying at a flame by instinct, without reason, and getting its wings scorched and feeling largely quite unhappy and ashamed about it, but really not knowing what in the world to do next except to fly at the flame again.

A British commission on Egypt can reason. I shall quote some of that reasoning. If the Egyptians rise, the British say, "Let's think up something." If the Irish rise, the British say:

"There they are! Been rising for seven hundred years! We're perfectly familiar with it. We know just what to do. In these circumstances one passes a coercion act. Pass a coercion act!"

It's really not a policy; it's a habit. And, then, too, there are so many other subjects to think about!

While I was in England the Wana Waziris submitted. They submitted absolutely; they sent in a jirga to say I did not know who the Wana

So.