borne away and the Arcadian day ends in well-earned repose. 

 "I want you to give me your opinion very, very frankly," said Mr. Lucullus Fyshe on one side of the luncheon table to the Rev. Fareforth Furlong on the other. 

 "By all means," said Mr. Furlong. 

 Mr. Fyshe poured out a wineglassful of soda and handed it to the rector to drink. 

 "Now tell me very truthfully," he said, "is there too much carbon in it?" 

 "By no means," said Mr. Furlong. 

 "And—quite frankly—not too much hydrogen?" 

 "Oh, decidedly not." 

 "And you would not say that the percentage of sodium bicarbonate was too great for the ordinary taste?" 

 "I certainly should not," said Mr. Furlong, and in this he spoke the truth. 

 "Very good then," said Mr. Fyshe, "I shall use it for the Duke of Dulham this afternoon." 

 He uttered the name of the Duke with that quiet, democratic carelessness which meant that he didn't care whether half a dozen other members lunching at the club could hear or not. After all, what was a duke to a man who was president of the People's Traction and Suburban Co., and the Republican Soda and Siphon Co-operative, and chief director of the People's District Loan and Savings? If a man with a broad basis of popular support like that was proposing to entertain a duke, surely there could be no doubt about his motives? None at all. 

 Naturally, too, if a man manufactures soda himself, he gets a little over-sensitive about the possibility of his guests noticing the existence of too much carbon in it. 

 In fact, ever so many of the members of the Mausoleum Club manufacture things, or cause them to be manufactured, or—what is the same thing—merge them when they are manufactured. This gives them their peculiar chemical attitude towards their food. One often sees a member suddenly call the head waiter at breakfast to tell him that there is too much ammonia in the bacon; and another one protest at the amount of glucose in the olive oil; and another that there is too high a 

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