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 sort was that of the Sinn Fein prisoners, which gave rise to the rumour that the Lord Lieutenant had threatened that if they destroyed any more jails they would be rigorously released. Sinn Fein, which refused to fight Germany, had already begun to play at a new sort of war. Australia was preparing to welcome the homing transports sped with messages of Godspeed from the Motherland:

February, a month of comparative anti-climax, witnessed the reassembling of Parliament, fuller than ever of members if not of wisdom. As none of the Sinn Feiners were present, nor indeed any representative of Irish Nationalism, the proceedings were as orderly as a Quaker's funeral, save for the arrival of one member on a motor-scooter. Perhaps the most interesting information elicited during the debates was this—that every question put down costs the tax-payer a guinea. On February 20th there were 282 on the Order Paper, and Mr. Punch was moved to wonder whether this cascade of curiosity might be abated if every questionist were obliged to contribute half the cost, the amount to be deducted from his official salary. The Speaker, the greatest of living Parliamentarians, was re-elected by acclamation. Though human and humorous, he has grown into something almost more like an institution than a man, like Big Ben, that great patriot and public servant who never struck during the war. The best news in February was that of M. Clemenceau's escape, though wounded, from the Anarchist assassin who had attempted to translate Trotsky's threat into