The entree, something with eggs and jelly, was excellent.

“Far be it from me to deny,” I said, “the fact that Funicula is by right a part of the inheritance of the Octo-syllabarians”—­and I bowed gracefully to my host, who raised his glass in return—­“and I agree in advance with every argument you put forward in favour of a restored Sesquicentennial commonwealth by bringing together the scattered members of the Duodecimal race from all over the world.  In fact,” I added as the waiter poured out the champagne, “it seems to me that in addition to the Island of Funicula there properly belongs, in the realm of your Greater Anti-Vivisectoria, the adjacent promontory, geyser and natural bridge of Pneumobronchia, from which the last Seljuk ruler, Didyffius the Forty-fifth, leaped in front of a machete wielded by his eldest son, who therefore became Didymus the Forty-sixth.”

He was delighted to find so much sympathy and understanding in an alien journalist from far across the seas.  His bill, so far as a hurried and discreet glance could reveal, was 89 francs 50 centimes, not including the taxe.

On the other hand, the sous-secretaire of the Pan-Deuteronomaniad delegation, who took me out to dinner that same night, paid 127 francs (including theatre tickets) before he proved to my satisfaction that the basic civilization of Funicula Island is after all Pan-whatever-you-call-it.

At any rate my point is made.  My expenditure on food these three days in Paris has been negligible, and there is rumour that the Supra-Zambesian delegation is thinking of opening a hotel with running water, h. and c., in every room.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Gunner.  “DO YOU PLAY THE PIANO?”

Jack.  “NO, SIR.”

Gunner.  “NOR THE ’CELLO?”

Jack.  “NO, SIR.”

Gunner.  “WELL, THE NEXT TIME YOU HEAR RUMOURS OF A BARBER JUST FOLLOW THE MATTER UP.”]

* * * * *

DULCE DOMUM.

  The air is full of rain and sleet,
  A dingy fog obscures the street;
  I watch the pane and wonder will
  The sun be shining on Boar’s Hill,
  Rekindling on his western course
  The dying splendour of the gorse
  And kissing hands in joyous mood
  To primroses in Bagley Wood. 
  I wish that when old Phoebus drops
  Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse
  And high and bright the Northern Crown
  Is standing over White Horse Down
  I could be sitting by the fire
  In that my Land of Heart’s Desire—­
  A fire of fir-cones and a log
  And at my feet a fubsy dog
  In Robinwood!  In Robinwood! 
  I think the angels, if they could,
  Would trade their harps for railway tickets
  Or hang their crowns upon the thickets
  And walk the highways of the world
  Through eves of gold and dawns empearled,
  Could they be sure the road led on
  Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon
  To where above twin valleys stands
  Boar’s Hill, the best of promised lands;
  That at the journey’s end there stood
  A heaven on earth like Robinwood.