THE DOMESTIC QUESTION SOLVED.
Last Thursday, at a registry-office, I obtained the favour of an interview with a domestic artist and was able (by reason of a previous conference with my friend Freshfield—like myself a demobilised bachelor author) to face the ordeal with some degree of confidence.
Mrs. Milton, widow, fifty-five, exceptional references, who proposed, if everything about me seemed satisfactory, to rule my household, was as suave as one has any right to expect nowadays; but when she dictated the terms I gathered that she would be sufficiently dangerous if roused.
She knew what bachelors were, she did, and wasn't going to take a place where a lot of comp'ny was kept.
I assured her on this point. My friend, Mr. Freshfield, I said, would come once a week, every Monday, to dine and sleep, but beyond that I should put no strain upon her powers of entertainment.
Mrs. Milton further said that she would require at least two afternoons and one evening a week. Here was my opportunity to appear generous.
"Two afternoons and one evening?" I said. "My dear friend and fellow-worker, you can have every Wednesday and Thursday from after breakfast on the former to practically dinner-time (eight o'clock) on the latter. No questions will be asked of you or of the piano or gramophone, both of which instruments you will find in smooth running order. I am away," I added, "every Wednesday and Thursday."
That clinched it. Hiding her surprise as well as she could under an irreproachable bonnet and toupee, Mrs. Milton expressed her readiness to accompany me then and there, and to superintend the disappearance of my coals and marmalade.
Perhaps you have guessed that I propose to spend every Wednesday night at Freshfield's place, and that the complete success of the scheme has been assured by the making of a similar agreement between Freshfield and a person holding corresponding views to those of Mrs. Milton.
Thus Freshfield and I have each secured the full seven days' attendance by a device pleasing to all concerned. After locking up the MELBA and GEORGE ROBEY records on Wednesday mornings and with the knowledge that the piano is past serious injury, I depart for Freshfield's (viâ the Club for lunch) each week with a light heart.
My collaborator is all for keeping this solution of a harassing problem to ourselves. I say "No." The general adoption of such a scheme, with alterations to suit individual cases, would, I think, be a nail in the coffin of Bolshevism in the home.
Mr. Wilson Rubs It In.
"The Echo de Paris says, 'Mr. Wilson believes he can play the rôle of the Popes of the middle ages. In the éclat of his public messages he tries to set peoples against governments.'"—Scots Paper.
"General Monash making an imposing figure on his grey horse, where he rode with General Hobbs and three Brigadiers."—Times.
The R.S.P.C.A. must look into this.
"GOLF BATTLE OF THE SEXES.
The latest Jack Johnson story is that he is training in Mexico City for a series of fights, which will take place in the bull-ring.
Ladies: Miss Cecil Leitch, Miss Chubb, Miss Barry, Mrs. McNair, Mrs. Jillard, Mrs. F.W. Brown, Miss Jones Parker and Mrs. Willock Pollen."—Daily Sketch.
We are rather sorry for Massa JOHNSON.
Bored Cadet (in Westminster Abbey). "LET'S SHOVE OFF NOW, MATER. HATE HANGIN' ROUND A PLACE WHERE ONE MIGHT BE BURIED SOME DAY!"