"To neither," said Egbert, drawing a stack of

notepaper towards him; "I'm going to write to the editor
of every enlightened and influential newspaper in the

Kingdom, I'm going to suggest that there should be a sort
of epistolary Truce of God during the festivities of

Christmas and New Year. From the twenty-fourth of
December to the third or fourth of January it shall be

considered an offence against good sense and good feeling
to write or expect any letter or communication that does

not deal with the necessary events of the moment.
Answers to invitations, arrangements about trains,

renewal of club subscriptions, and, of course, all the
ordinary everyday affairs of business, sickness, engaging

new cooks, and so forth, these will be dealt with in the
usual manner as something inevitable, a legitimate part

of our daily life. But all the devastating accretions of
correspondence, incident to the festive season, these

should be swept away to give the season a chance of being
really festive, a time of untroubled, unpunctuated peace

and good will."
"But you would have to make some acknowledgment of

presents received," objected Janetta; "otherwise people
would never know whether they had arrived safely."

"Of course, I have thought of that," said Egbert;
"every present that was sent off would be accompanied by

a ticket bearing the date of dispatch and the signature
of the sender, and some conventional hieroglyphic to show

that it was intended to be a Christmas or New Year gift;
there would be a counterfoil with space for the

recipient's name and the date of arrival, and all you
would have to do would be to sign and date the

counterfoil, add a conventional hieroglyphic indicating
heartfelt thanks and gratified surprise, put the thing

into an envelope and post it."
"It sounds delightfully simple," said Janetta

wistfully, "but people would consider it too cut-and-
dried, too perfunctory."

"It is not a bit more perfunctory than the present
system," said Egbert; "I have only the same conventional

language of gratitude at my disposal with which to thank
dear old Colonel Chuttle for his perfectly delicious

Stilton, which we shall devour to the last morsel, and
the Froplinsons for their calendar, which we shall never

look at. Colonel Chuttle knows that we are grateful for
the Stilton, without having to be told so, and the

Froplinsons know that we are bored with their calendar,
whatever we may say to the contrary, just as we know that

they are bored with the bridge-markers in spite of their
written assurance that they thanked us for our charming

little gift. What is more, the Colonel knows that even
if we had taken a sudden aversion to Stilton or been

forbidden it by the doctor, we should still have written
a letter of hearty thanks around it. So you see the

present system of acknowledgment is just as perfunctory
and conventional as the counterfoil business would be,

only ten times more tiresome and brain-racking."
"Your plan would certainly bring the ideal of a

Happy Christmas a step nearer realisation," said Janetta.
"There are exceptions, of course," said Egbert,

"people who really try to infuse a breath of reality into
their letters of acknowledgment. Aunt Susan, for

instance, who writes: 'Thank you very much for the ham;
not such a good flavour as the one you sent last year,

which itself was not a particularly good one. Hams are
not what they used to be.' It would be a pity to be

deprived of her Christmas comments, but that loss would
be swallowed up in the general gain."

"Meanwhile," said Janetta, "what am I to say to the
Froplinsons?"

THE NAME-DAY
ADVENTURES, according to the proverb, are to the

adventurous. Quite as often they are to the non-
adventurous, to the retiring, to the constitutionally

timid. John James Abbleway had been endowed by Nature
with the sort of disposition that instinctively avoids

Carlist intrigues, slum crusades, the tracking of wounded
wild beasts, and the moving of hostile amendments at

political meetings. If a mad dog or a Mad Mullah had
come his way he would have surrendered the way without

hesitation. At school he had unwillingly acquired a
thorough knowledge of the German tongue out of deference

to the plainly-expressed wishes of a foreign-languages
master, who, though he taught modern subjects, employed

old-fashioned methods in driving his lessons home. It
was this enforced familiarity with an important

commercial language which thrust Abbleway in later years
into strange lands where adventures were less easy to

guard against than in the ordered atmosphere of an
English country town. The firm that he worked for saw

fit to send him one day on a prosaic business errand to
the far city of Vienna, and, having sent him there,

continued to keep him there, still engaged in humdrum
affairs of commerce, but with the possibilities of

romance and adventure, or even misadventure, jostling at
his elbow. After two and a half years of exile, however,

John James Abbleway had embarked on only one hazardous
undertaking, and that was of a nature which would

assuredly have overtaken him sooner or later if he had
been leading a sheltered, stay-at-home existence at

Dorking or Huntingdon. He fell placidly in love with a
placidly lovable English girl, the sister of one of his

commercial colleagues, who was improving her mind by a
short trip to foreign parts, and in due course he was

formally accepted as the young man she was engaged to.
The further step by which she was to become Mrs. John

Abbleway was to take place a twelvemonth hence in a town
in the English midlands, by which time the firm that

employed John James would have no further need for his
presence in the Austrian capital.

It was early in April, two months after the
installation of Abbleway as the young man Miss Penning

was engaged to, when he received a letter from her,
written from Venice. She was still peregrinating under

the wing of her brother, and as the latter's business
arrangements would take him across to Fiume for a day or

two, she had conceived the idea that it would be rather
jolly if John could obtain leave of absence and run down

to the Adriatic coast to meet them. She had looked up
the route on the map, and the journey did not appear

likely to be expensive. Between the lines of her
communication there lay a hint that if he really cared

for her -
Abbleway obtained leave of absence and added a

journey to Fiume to his life's adventures. He left
Vienna on a cold, cheerless day. The flower shops were

full of spring blooms, and the weekly organs of
illustrated humour were full of spring topics, but the

skies were heavy with clouds that looked like cotton-wool
that has been kept over long in a shop window.

"Snow comes," said the train official to the station