ECONOMY AT THE CINEMA DE LUXE.
Mrs. Jones (completing her fourth Hour). "I used to stay only two hours; but one 'as to make threepence go further these days."
HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY.
It happened in Scotland—it couldn't have happened anywhere else.
I had been visiting the MacNeils. They sympathised over my wound; they rallied round with tea and toast; they provided Scotch whisky. My one objection to the family was their supreme confidence in these new-fledged lads of the Home Defence, whom I—as a Subaltern of the old school who had done my time at Sandhurst before the War—scorned with a dogged contempt which no degree of argument could kill.
It was when I reached the street that I realised that fervid fire in the soul of Scotch hospitality—a fire which brands it as unique in our island story. In my coat pocket reposed a bottle of Heather Dew.
The convalescent home where I was being wooed back to brisk health was situated along the sea-front. Chuckling at the MacNeils' efforts to modify my views of our Home Defenders and their inefficiency, and brooding on the folks' kind hearts, I paused to light a cigarette. The wind blew out the fluttering flame. It also set me sneezing, for I had a bad cold in the head. I struck another match.