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He was manicuring himself when I called, and I was asked whether I would see him now, or wait two hours till he had finished. I said I would see him now; so I was showm into his dressing-room.

"I am sorry," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "but if you will call at such an early hour" It was twelve o'clock, but I apologised. "And what can I do for you?" asked my host.

"My paper," I said, "would like to have your views on the War."

"Well, if you ask me what I think of the War," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "it's a noosance—an unmitigated noosance. No one talks anything but War nowadays—and the papers contain nothing but War news. Even the Men's Dress Columns have disappeared. I can tell you it has caused the greatest inconvenience to me personally. You may wonder why I am manicuring myself. I'll tell you why. My manicurist—the only man in London who knew how to manicure—turned out to be a beastly German or Austrian or something, and has gone off to his beastly War. I even offered to double the man's fees—at which the fellow, instead of being grateful, was grossly impertinent. If he hasn't been such a great hulking brute I'd have knocked him down... So I have to do the business myself. Couldn't trust it to anyone else... And then look here. You see this little pot of pink paste, which has to be used to give the nails the necessary blush? Do you know that the price of that has doubled since the War?"

I expressed my horror by a suitable gesture.

"Of course," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "I don't want to be hard on the Government—I know they have a lot to think of—but I do consider they ought to have prevented this somehow. They regulate the price of food, but foget that there are other necessities... Again, some of my dividends have not been paid. A nice thing if one is to be forced to earn one's own living!"

"You haven't volunteered to fight, then?" I said.

"Good lor, no! That might suit some people, but not me. It's not a job for anyone of any refinement. Why, I am told that, when they are fighting, for days together even the officers don't shave or change their linen. I'm not that sort, thank you. There are plenty of rough fellows to do it, I suppose. And in any event I could not fight alongside of French soldiers. Have you seen the cut of their trousers?"

Mr. FitzJenkins laughed outright.

"And are you doing anything to help in the crisis?" I asked.

"Oh yes, oh yes," said Mr. FitzJenkins. "You mustn't imagine that it is only those who fight who are helping. What about the women who are left behind? I help amuse 'em—keep 'em bright. I'm 'carrying on.' I'm not of your panicky sort. It's just as well that there should be a few men like me left in town. We give it a tone."

"I trust, Mr. FitzJenkins," I said, "that you are not opposed to the War."

"Oh dear, no. Please don't imagine that. It had to be fought, I suppose. And, although I am not taking an active part in it myself, I wish the War well, and hope that the and  will pull it off all right."

"May I publish that? I think it would encourage them."

"Certainly. And you might say this. I am convinced we are going to win. No good could ever come to a man who wears an out-of-date moustache like the ... Oh, certainly I am in favour of the War. Why, I have just ordered several pairs of khaki spats... Believe me, I wish our soldier-fellows well, and in my opinion they ought to be encouraged. I met a lot of 'em trudging along in Pall Mall yesterday, poor devils of Territorials, I fancy, and I waved my stick to 'em. Nothing would please me more than to see the country to which that impudent manicurist has returned receive a thrashing."

Just then the young man who had opened the door to me came in and asked his master if he could see him privately for a minute. Mr. FitzJenkins begged me to excuse him, and I did so. When he came back his face was flushed and almost animated.

"Atrocious! Infamous! I shall write to the papers about it," he said. "How dare he leave me helpless like this? Off to enlist, indeed!"

"Who?" I asked.

"My man," said Mr. FitzJenkins.





, as you say, there is no cause for grieving,
 * When in your pages no triumphs appear,

But, gentle Sir, when you talk of "receiving,"
 * Are you not wandering out of your sphere?

Yours not to wait for a foe's retrogression,
 * Yours not to heed the belligerents' fate;

You're higher up in the writer's profession;
 * Perish "receiving," 'tis yours to create.

What though you dabble in newspaper diction
 * Common reporters deserve your disdain;

You should be ranked with the masters of fiction,
 * Weaving your victories out of your brain.

Stories are needed, and you must supply 'em;
 * That should be easy; so gifted a man

Surely can compass a triumph per diem,
 * Seeing the truth is no part of your plan.

Even although inspiration is flagging,
 * Let not your output grow markedly less;

Fiction gives precedents (plenty) for dragging
 * Out an old yard in a different dress.

But, if your brain is too weary for spinning
 * Words to re-tell our habitual rout,

Don't blame the army that hasn't been winning;
 * Frankly confess that you feel written out.

 "'London Lady (twenties) well-educated, fair linguist, deeply interested psychology and the things that matter in life, considered clever by inmates, but not brilliant, would greatly appreciate broadminded and friendly companion to share walks.' T. P.'s Weekly."

We must remember that the inmates' standard would not be a very high one.