whom it is directed can operate, if at all, only through the fear that it will be backed by physical force; and it is worse than useless to indulge in admonitions in serious affairs unless the contingency of having to employ force shall have been previously faced and fully accepted.

In the same category must be placed the tenuous hopes which have been unofficially expressed that some rebel or Constitutionalist leader would show himself sane enough and strong enough to receive recognition as a belligerent, or possibly to take Mexico City from Huerta, and afford an opportunity to recognize the captor as an ad-interim executive. Unfortunately, if Huerta should abdicate to-morrow, or if any rebel leader in Mexico now known to the world should take Mexico City, there is no reason to believe that the general situation throughout that unfortunate land would be substantially altered. Such a new dictator, whatever he might style himself, would be faced by the same local or internal problems, jealousies, and hatreds which have afflicted and obstructed Huerta. There would still be Constitutionalists in arms against the new "insider." Bandits accustomed to live on the country would hardly lay down their weapons and suddenly take to a life of prayer and fasting. Disappointed candidates for the office of generalissimo of the Constitutionalist army would promptly go to the hills and shout, "Down with the new upstart!"

In other words, some form of foreign intervention and assistance will be just as necessary then as it is now; probably

even more so.

spell, a reasonable respite from internecine strife and butcherous brigandage paraded in the guise of patriotism. If there are solid and sane elements in the political maelstrom, they must be given an opportunity to assert themselves in calmer wa

ters.

Mexico can secure this respite within any reasonable time in one of only two ways: either by the sudden and miraculous agreement of all the factions and people on some one leader who can secure the recognition of the powers, or by forcible outside interference to such extent as to secure comparative peace while a plan is devised for holding an election under foreign supervision, with the understanding that the successful candidate will be placed and held in power, if necessary, by foreign bayonets. Otherwise, the world may expect the same sickening story of Madero over again.

It is for these reasons that some positive plan of action seems wiser than the present policy of waiting for something to turn up, for the miracle to happen. Day by day the country is being devastated, railroads are destroyed, houses and crops. burned, innocent men, women, and children killed, while various generals direct their motley armies against the federal troops. There is no agreement as to what will happen even if the rebels succeed. If, then, there could ever be any justification for foreign intervention in Mexico, surely the time has arrived. Why delay until an army of undertakers and sextons would be the only appropriate force?

If the powers of the world have not yet made up their minds that they would be justified in intervening in Mexico, then they should retire from any interference whatsoever with Mexican affairs, express no opinions on the merits, warn their citizens and subjects to flee, and allow Huerta, Carranza, Pancho Villa, and half a dozen others to fight it out to a finish.

But if the powers have decided that it is their right to intervene at some time, not only to protect their subjects and their property, but, as some express it, in the name of humanity, then no international suspicions or sparring for position should be allowed to delay the practical execution of the idea.

take the ground that patience had now ceased to be a virtue from any point of view, and propose to the other powers interested a joint ultimatum to the Huerta Government and all others in arms in Mexico. This notification should call for an immediate cessation of hostilities and foreshadow the designation by the powers of a provisional executive, who should have full power to prepare the ground for a general election for a president and federal congress (he himself being held ineligible), the election to be conducted under the supervision of foreign commissioners. Warning should be given in the ultimatum that failure to accept these terms would be followed by an international expeditionary force which would take the country under military control pending such time as order could be restored and valid elections held. This would be very blunt diplomacy, but it would be more. efficacious than mere suasion.

Under an imaginary policy termed "Pan-Americanism" it has been proposed that this duty should be undertaken by the United States in conjunction with some other Western nations, such as Brazil and Argentina. The idea is splendid, but it entirely lacks international countenance. Neither of those stronger Southern countries has any substantial interests in Mexico. Their participation, however nominal, in policing Mexico would therefore be purely political in its origin, and would be in pursuance of a new policy of American exclusiveness and selfarrogation which would find little favor with the nations of Europe. To attempt it, even were Brazil and Argentina not so occupied with their own affairs as to make their participation a mere empty pretext, would add only another complication to the existing international muddle.

Sooner or later the American people will come to see that there is only one practical solution of the Mexican situation; namely, joint intervention, after proper warning has been given, by the nations substantially interested. This would be based on the well-known and accepted principle of international relations which gives each nation the right to protect the lives and property of its citizens or subjects wherever located. The time and manner of exercising that right must of

course vary with the foreign policy, the circumstances, and the discretion of the nations involved. Any other theory of intervention, such as mere humanity, the desire to stop a fight, however lofty in conception or beautiful and praiseworthy in motives, would in practice inevitably upset the established usage of the civilized world, invite unnecessary and meddlesome crusades by impetuous peoples, and encourage campaigns of conquest in the name of chivalry by those nations willing to take the hazard. This applies as strongly to the United States in its position in the Western Hemisphere as to any other nation in the world.

There is still a chance to avoid the further indiscriminate letting of blood on the hills and in the valleys of Mexico, but the United States must take the lead. Acting in harmony with the other powers interested, the American nation may yet convince Huerta and the Mexican people that his and their failure to heed the civilized world's just admonition will result in the prompt and complete exercise of that international police power which in the end must reside in the leading civilized nations of the earth.

But to lead successfully along these lines the United States Government must remember that suspicion on one side bars confidence on the other; that the first duty of a Christian gentleman is a just consideration and respect for the rights and feelings of others; and that the first duty of a Christian nation is not vastly differ

ent.

The only debatable question is one of fact: Has the situation in Mexico reached such a point that no reasonable hope exists of her being able to rid herself of anarchy without foreign aid? If the answer of the world be "Yes," there should be no hesitation or delay in setting about the task.

Acting alone in Mexico, the American nation will only soil its hands in a useless, aimless, inglorious struggle with a weaker, if misguided, people. Whatever the result, the American people would leave a heritage of hatred to the generations to

come.

Should mere national sentimentalism stand against the right thing to do in a case involving the lives and future happiness of millions of fellow-beings?

THE

I

HE month December, the weather snowy, the place Canary's, Canary's, as you may know, being an "avenue" restaurant the avenue. There is only one avenue in New York, if you believe in "blue books"; although had you been in Canary's at the time this narrator takes up his tale, he would have pardoned you for imagining your social cicerone a deceiver, who had landed you two blocks They were turkey-trotting; but, observing more closely, you would have seen that "they" were also smart.

west.

A young man whom nobody knew and everybody liked was commenting upon the misuse of this adjective.

"I always imagined a 'smart' fellow was one who could preach a fine sermon or pick a fat purse, play a fiddle or play a sucker," he said. Society, just beginning to learn that English aristocrats approved American slang, laughed. "Instead," the young man pursued, "it 's a lad who crams a fifteen neck into a fourteen collar, and lets a seven and a half hat cover the back of a six and a half head. Eh?"

"You 're too quaint, Mr. Neither Miss Snapp nor Mrs. Stearres knew him, really. But one did social settlement work just then, and they had observed him instructing in gymnastics the boys and men of their favorite settlement house. Later, he had escorted the two ladies through the quarter, preserving them from the painful necessity of telephoning for a taxicab, such flaunting of wealth among the lowly being bad form, keeping alive class hatred. Observing that the young man's clothes were right, his hair clipped in the manner esteemed proper by the barber of the Racquet Club, his speech correctly careless, it had been suggested that he might change, and drop in at Canary's later. "Up-stairs. Tell Albert, Mrs. Stearres or Miss Snapp,"

they had said. Albert, like Horatio, kept. the bridge, warning mere Whittingtons to turn back.

The young man had defeated successfully this Roman, and in the two hours following had become easily the most popular man in the room. Had he not taught débutantes a new variant of the "Todolo,"-the unwrapping of the arm that whirled your female partner round and round, the wrapping that drew her, dizzy, back again,-all in perfect step? In a class where women have all the ideas, this was enchantingly enough, but, also, he was fascinatingly rude, and maintained an adorable pretense of being, as he expressed it, when questioned as to himself, "just a common or garden outsider who up to now had never got any nearer to the lions than the bars." Of course that proved he was somebody. Nobodies always asked if you did n't know the Duke of Something or the Prince Somersault, "who were so nice to us" somewhere; but they never knew plain John Smith, cotillionleader in their own town. Also, nobodies were so terribly afraid of bad form that they were never good form.

But when, breathless, they ceased for supper, it was discovered that his whisperings during dances had done small justice to his highly developed conversational powers. He had coruscated. Both his wit and his words were alive; neither reminded anybody of anything they had read in books. Many débutantes wished they had cuffs like those upon which many of the men wrote down some of his "perfectly deevy" slang. Yet no one knew his name. Therefore Jane Snapp persisted. "Mr. "she said again.

"Rice," said he "R-h-v-s. Welsh. Rhoscomyl Rhys. Looks better spelled out. Listens like pudding."

"Why are you so cynical about women, Mr. Rhys?" asked a very young débutante who thought everything not romantic cynical. She spoke loudly, to be

heard. She wanted to be noticed by the hero of the hour.

Rhys, surveying her, wished they would keep away from turkey-trots young women with eyes so innocent. "My name 's Jenny Pendleton, if that 's what you 're hesitating for," chirped the "chicken." "Why do you?"

"I don't," said Rhys, wishing she was not so very young. She was just his type: fluffy black hair, Irish eyes, cherry-red lips.

"But you said-" she fluted.

"You did n't understand-baby," he returned. The "baby" was not an endearment; it was an accusation. "Women," he said seriously, "achieve greatness through superlative baseness. To achieve the loftiest altruism in one thing, they sacrifice the common decencies in all things. Excuse me for pulling philosophic platitudes, people," he said to the others; "but for such a serious subject as women our colloquial speech provides no adequate expressions-and she brought it on herself."

"Yes, sir; please, sir; thank you, sir," said Albert, the Roman. "For the gentleman who wore the yellow orchid. You, sir?"

Rhys recognized the handwriting. Suitably rewarding Albert with one hand, he tore open the envelop with the other, and, after a swift and urgent "Pardon," read it. It caused no change of expression to come to his face, although to him it seemed that for a heart he had suddenly a jellyfish, especially when he saw that Jenny Pendleton's Irish eyes were still admiring him.

"If she were two years older," he told himself, "Paris forever for both of us. She'd elope with me between here and home."

The note received, had it been read aloud, would have convinced the visiting stranger that he was on the avenue two blocks west. A foreigner, apt at academic English, would have asked in what language was it.

Beat it while the hoofing 's good. Nix on where you kip. Front-office dicks in hall, one on fire-escape, four harness-bulls on block. Nix also on hang-outs or pals' drums, joints, ferries, or tubes. Whole force got your number, and told to ring it

if they rumble you. Keep under cover in some new snare until I square the rap for you. No chance for get-away on rattlers or the drink.

Rhys arose.

"Urgent call," he said. "Delightful time. See you all some more some time. So long." There was a storm of protest, but nevertheless he got into his coat, the orchid from which he presented to Miss Pendleton, saying, "You are a baby, you know." It was as near to being affectionate as he dared come in public. Some young men pressed their cards on him, asking him to call at their clubs. He grinned. "You never can tell," said he, cryptically. He had called at one of their clubs, but not by request, nor at any daylit or lamplit hour.

He passed into the street, muffling himself high about the neck, abandoning the fashionable angle for silk hats, tilting his over his eyes. Thus a policeman was passed in safety and under a glaring, blue carbon light. Strangely enough, Rhys had not noticed the policeman any more than the policeman had noticed him.

As long as he remained in this avenue district he was safe. The wisest thing would have been to brazen it out at Canary's; the dance over, to have demanded a room; thereafter to remain in bed, pretending to doctors alcoholic delirium. But the turkey-trotters had been decent, had taken him on trust. Spoil that trust? In return for hospitality give notoriety, hateful newspaper gibes for their gulli-. bility? Could he look in the mirror and meet his own eyes, imagining little Jenny's after the disclosure?

You will perceive that Master Rhys had a code of honor as exotic as his habitual orchid. The same code kept him away from the homes of other friends. To be sure, he had been warned to avoid “pals' drums" and "hang-outs"; no doubt more plain-clothes men awaited him at these places. But he had other than Tenderloin friends friends who had never caused the police a moment's uneasiness. But one never could tell (his favorite expression); some clue might lead to the home of an eminent scholar, sociologist, author, or dignified doctor, all of whom had met Rhys without introductions or knowledge of his past. Had their friendship been

other than his most precious possession, he might have risked making them liable to the law as "accessories after the fact." But since honor forbade, and he could hardly hope to tramp between the park and Canary's until dawn, especially as it was snowing and snowing hard, chance must serve, a stranger give shelter. He looked around alertly, bird-like. The sides of the city-cañon seemed blacker because of the whiteness of the driving snow. Save for the policeman on fixed post, beating and blowing, two blocks away, there was none abroad; for it was past two in the morning, and no lights were burning except those behind Canary's curtains, afar off. But even as his mind formed these words, a light flew up to give them the lie.

Rhys's brain had worked swiftly. When he searched for lights, he had done so dumbly, but an idea was trembling into birth even then; and now, with Fortune's lamp shining, his hand went to a pocket where reposed many cards-visiting-cards, business cards. He hardly remembered the evening when strangers desiring to become friends had not given him one or the other, and they had long remained in the pocket of his dress-coat. He was now searching for one in particular-one that would serve to save his liberty and prove a long-held theory. He grinned, but not with joy at his possible safety. He was, first of all, an intellect, and such always lose the personal in the more absorbing abstract; for a discussion in metaphysics forget their meals or unconsciously break profitable appointments. Therefore they are often ill and never rich.

II

His ring at the stranger's door awoke many echoes in the old house, but seemingly awoke nothing else. He rang again, again, and again, until finally the door flew open with a thunderous crash, and revealed an old man in pajamas of quilted purple Chinese silk, like a certain sort of dressing-gown. Rhys did not give. Rhys did not give him time to speak.

"After sending for a man at this hour of the night, you might have the courtesy to keep awake," he grumbled, and brushed past the astonished old fellow, to stand in a hall where hung old armor. 'A skeleton in it; there had better be," said the

persisting humor of his metaphysics; then aloud: "Come, close the door, man. You'll have no need of paying high for my services if you stand in that cold air long. Which way?"

He

The old man had surveyed his visitor's high forehead, humorous mouth, and clear eyes, the exceedingly well-shaped head under the very glossy, very smart, hence very expensive top-hat, an expensiveness and smartness common to his Cork Street clothes. And the old man smiled. was a very dull old man, rich and friendless, and he could not sleep nowadays for thinking of the many things he had done to get the riches and lose the friends. Therefore, after tossing about every night, he would light up the bedroom again and add up columns of figures, computing compound interest, to him the most fascinating of all pursuits. Or else he read romances. The entrance of this goodlooking, apparently opulent young man, suffering under a hallucination or from liquor or a mistake, promised some diversion. Any company is a relief to one who cannot sleep and who has no pleasant abstract or ambitious thoughts. But he must voice the natural question first, and did: "Have n't you made a mistake?" said it surlily enough, in all truth, and for the moment Rhys was afraid he must seek the streets again and search for a second lighted window; for his safety and the proof of his theory went together: one could not be without the other. However, he answered confidently enough, even casually:

He

"A mistake? With this the only light in three blocks? I told my man to steer for the light."

It sounded sufficiently mysterious, yet real enough. Any one who had a spark of curiosity in him would want to play eavesdropper and learn the secret of a young gentleman who had his man steer for a lighted window, for whom some one on the avenue was waiting at two in the morning-some one who had sufficient power to bring him, yet whom, evidently, he did not know by sight. The old man had read many romances that began with a secret stumbling into the wrong house. Therefore he chuckled, and pointed to the stairs.

"Two flights up," he said, and they went up over the velvet stair carpeting.