left like this! I can't appear in public in this
condition."

After a very hasty scrutiny Sophie assured her that
she could not.

"Have they all struck?" she asked her maid.
"Not the kitchen staff," said Richardson, "they

belong to a different union."
"Dinner at least will be assured," said Sophie,

"that is something to be thankful for."
"Dinner!" snorted Catherine, "what on earth is the

good of dinner when none of us will be able to appear at
it? Look at your hair - and look at me! or rather,

don't."
"I know it's difficult to manage without a maid;

can't your husband be any help to you?" asked Sophie
despairingly.

"Henry? He's in worse case than any of us. His man
is the only person who really understands that ridiculous

new-fangled Turkish bath that he insists on taking with
him everywhere."

"Surely he could do without a Turkish bath for one
evening," said Sophie; "I can't appear without hair, but

a Turkish bath is a luxury."
"My good woman," said Catherine, speaking with a

fearful intensity, "Henry was in the bath when the strike
started. In it, do you understand? He's there now."

"Can't he get out?"
"He doesn't know how to. Every time he pulls the

lever marked 'release' he only releases hot steam. There
are two kinds of steam in the bath, 'bearable' and

'scarcely bearable'; he has released them both. By this
time I'm probably a widow."

"I simply can't send away Gaspare," wailed Sophie;
"I should never be able to secure another omelette

specialist."
"Any difficulty that I may experience in securing

another husband is of course a trifle beneath anyone's
consideration," said Catherine bitterly.

Sophie capitulated. "Go," she said to Richardson,
"and tell the Strike Committee, or whoever are directing

this affair, that Gaspare is herewith dismissed. And ask
Gaspare to see me presently in the library, when I will

pay him what is due to him and make what excuses I can;
and then fly back and finish my hair."

Some half an hour later Sophie marshalled her guests
in the Grand Salon preparatory to the formal march to the

dining-room. Except that Henry Malsom was of the ripe
raspberry tint that one sometimes sees at private

theatricals representing the human complexion, there was
little outward sign among those assembled of the crisis

that had just been encountered and surmounted. But the
tension had been too stupefying while it lasted not to

leave some mental effects behind it. Sophie talked at
random to her illustrious guest, and found her eyes

straying with increasing frequency towards the great
doors through which would presently come the blessed

announcement that dinner was served. Now and again she
glanced mirror-ward at the reflection of her wonderfully

coiffed hair, as an insurance underwriter might gaze
thankfully at an overdue vessel that had ridden safely

into harbour in the wake of a devastating hurricane.
Then the doors opened and the welcome figure of the

butler entered the room. But he made no general
announcement of a banquet in readiness, and the doors

closed behind him; his message was for Sophie alone.
"There is no dinner, madame," he said gravely; "the

kitchen staff have 'downed tools.' Gaspare belongs to
the Union of Cooks and Kitchen Employees, and as soon as

they heard of his summary dismissal at a moment's notice
they struck work. They demand his instant reinstatement

and an apology to the union. I may add, madame, that
they are very firm; I've been obliged even to hand back

the dinner rolls that were already on the table."
After the lapse of eighteen months Sophie Chattel-

Monkheim is beginning to go about again among her old
haunts and associates, but she still has to be very

careful. The doctors will not let her attend anything at
all exciting, such as a drawing-room meeting or a Fabian

conference; it is doubtful, indeed, whether she wants to.
THE FEAST OF NEMESIS

"IT'S a good thing that Saint Valentine's Day has
dropped out of vogue," said Mrs. Thackenbury; "what with

Christmas and New Year and Easter, not to speak of
birthdays, there are quite enough remembrance days as it

is. I tried to save myself trouble at Christmas by just
sending flowers to all my friends, but it wouldn't work;

Gertrude has eleven hot-houses and about thirty
gardeners, so it would have been ridiculous to send

flowers to her, and Milly has just started a florist's
shop, so it was equally out of the question there. The

stress of having to decide in a hurry what to give to
Gertrude and Milly just when I thought I'd got the whole

question nicely off my mind completely ruined my
Christmas, and then the awful monotony of the letters of

thanks: 'Thank you so much for your lovely flowers. It
was so good of you to think of me.' Of course in the

majority of cases I hadn't thought about the recipients
at all; their names were down in my list of 'people who

must not be left out.' If I trusted to remembering them
there would be some awful sins of omission."

"The trouble is," said Clovis to his aunt, "all
these days of intrusive remembrance harp so persistently

on one aspect of human nature and entirely ignore the
other; that is why they become so perfunctory and

artificial. At Christmas and New Year you are emboldened
and encouraged by convention to send gushing messages of

optimistic goodwill and servile affection to people whom
you would scarcely ask to lunch unless some one else had

failed you at the last moment; if you are supping at a
restaurant on New Year's Eve you are permitted and

expected to join hands and sing 'For Auld Lang Syne' with
strangers whom you have never seen before and never want

to see again. But no licence is allowed in the opposite
direction."

"Opposite direction; what opposite direction?"
queried Mrs. Thackenbury.

"There is no outlet for demonstrating your feelings
towards people whom you simply loathe. That is really

the crying need of our modern civilisation. Just think
how jolly it would be if a recognised day were set apart

for the paying off of old scores and grudges, a day when
one could lay oneself out to be gracefully vindictive to

a carefully treasured list of 'people who must not be let
off.' I remember when I was at a private school we had

one day, the last Monday of the term I think it was,
consecrated to the settlement of feuds and grudges; of

course we did not appreciate it as much as it deserved,
because, after all, any day of the term could be used for