the jeweler, had most inconsiderately gone to view royalty, leaving my unrepaired glasses locked in his shop; otherwise I, too, would have been on the Fifth Avenue curb shouting with the best of them.  Do not misinterpret me.  For the divinity that doth hedge a king I care as little as one should whose forbears fought in the Revolution.  But for the divinity of high courage and devotion that certifies to the image of God within man, I should have been proud to take off my old but still glossy silk hat to Albert of the Belgians.  So I was rather cross, and it was well for my equanimity that the Bonnie Lassie, who had remained at home for reasons which are peculiarly her own affair and that of Cyrus the Gaunt, should have come over to my favorite bench to cheer me up.  Said the Bonnie Lassie: 

“I wonder why Plooie didn’t go to see his king.”

“Sense of shame,” I suggested acidly.

“Yes?” said the Bonnie Lassie in a tone which I mistrusted.

“It is no use,” I assured her, “for you to favor me with that pitying and contemptuous smile of yours, for I can’t see it.  Mendel has my nearer range of vision locked in his shop.”

“I was just thinking,” said the Bonnie Lassie in ruminant accents, “how nice it must be to look back on a long life of unspotted correctness with not an item in it to be ashamed of.  It gives one such a comfortable basis for sitting in judgment.”

“Her lips drip honey,” I observed, “and the poison of asps is under her tongue.”

“Your quotations are fatally mixed,” retorted my companion.

From across the park sounded Plooie’s patient falsetto:  “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees!  Annie Oombrella for mend?  Parapluie-ee-ee-” The call broke off in a kind of choke.

“What’s happened to Plooie?” I asked.  “The youngsters can’t have got back from the parade already, have they?”

“A very tall man has stopped him,” said the Bonnie Lassie.  “Plooie has dropped his kit....  He’s trying to salute....  It must be one of the Belgian officers....  Oh, Dominie!”

“Well, what?” I demanded impatiently and cursed the recreant Mendel in my heart.

“It can’t be ... you don’t think they can be arresting poor Plooie at this late day for evading service?”

“Serve him right if they did,” said I.

“I believe they are.  The big man has taken him by the arm and is leading him along.  Poor Plooie!  He’s all wilted down.  It’s a shame!” cried the Bonnie Lassie, beginning to flame.  “It ought not to be allowed.”

“Probably they’re taking him away.  Do you see an official-looking automobile anywhere about?”

“There’s a strange car over on the Avenue.  Oh, dear!  Poor Annie Oombrella!  But—­but they’re not going there.  They’re going into Schepstein’s basement.”

I could feel the Bonnie Lassie fidgeting on the bench.  For a moment I endured it.  Then I said: 

“Well, Lassie, why don’t you?”