The visit is not unattended by risks, for the ardour of enthusiasm imposes a corresponding strain on the endurance of this august and inimitable pair.  But there can be no doubt as to the absolute sincerity and spontaneity of these marvellous demonstrations of loyal affection.  We can only hope that, to borrow the noble phrase of the Roman Senate in their address to NERO on the death of AGRIPPINA, Queen PICKFORD the First may “endure her felicity with fortitude.”  Conspicuous grandeur has its penalties as well as its privileges, but the chivalric instinct is still alive in our midst; and all of us who are not perverted or debased by the malign “wizardry” of the PRIME MINISTER will spring to the defence of MARY “the Sweetheart of the World,” and DOUGLAS “tender and true,” in their hours of peril.  In that high emprise the gentlemen of the world, however humble, stand, as of old time, side by side and shoulder to shoulder.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE IRRESISTIBLE MEETS THE IMMOVABLE.

SCENE:  Exclusive West-End Square, with passing procession of “Reds."

The Flag-bearer. “COMRADE, THE REVOLUTION IS ’ERE!”

The Complete Butler. “AR!  WILL YOU KINDLY DELIVER IT AT THE HAREA HENTRANCE?”]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF THE MOTHERS.

We were sitting in the smoking-room when the Venerable Archdeacon entered. 
He had been so long absent that we asked him the reason.

Had he been ill?

Ill?  Not he.  He never was better in his life.  He had merely been on a motor tour with his mother.

“Do you mean to say,” someone inquired—­an equally elderly member—­almost with anger, certainly with a kind of outraged surprise, “that you have a mother still living?”

“Of course I have,” said the Man of God.  “My mother is not only living but is in the pink of condition.”

“And how old is she?” the questioner continued.

“She is ninety-one,” said the Archdeacon proudly.

Most of us looked at him with wonder and respect—­even a touch of awe.

“And still motoring!” I commented.

“She delights in motoring.”

“Well,” said the angry man, “you needn’t be so conceited about it.  You are not the only person with an aged mother.  I have a mother too.”

We switched round to this new centre of surprise.  It was more incredible that this man should have a mother even than the Archdeacon.  No one had ever suspected him of anything so extreme, for he had a long white beard and hobbled with a stick.

“And how old may your mother be?” the Archdeacon inquired.

“My mother is ninety-two.”

“And is she well and hearty?”

“My mother,” he replied, “is in rude health—­or, as you would say, full of beans.”

The Archdeacon made a deprecatory movement, repudiating the metaphor.