I know no joy so simple and so true
As painting the conservatory blue.
A.P.H.
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at a railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their outward appearance.
Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr. Harringay Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you would, I fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones, who had the indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not purchase a volume of essays or a political autobiography, but selected a flaming one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and secret service intrigue.