"I should love so much to see one of your factories. They
must be so interesting."

   "Honk!" says Mr. Grunt. Then he turns and moves away
sideways. Into his little piggy eyes has come a fear that
the lady is going to ask him to subscribe to something,
or wants a block of his common stock, or his name on a
board of directors. So he leaves her. Yet if he had known
it she is probably as rich as he is, or richer, and hasn't
the faintest interest in his factories, and never intends
to go near one. Only she is fit to move and converse in
polite society and Mr. Grunt is not.

   2.—Heroes and Heroines

   "What are you reading?" I asked the other day of a blue-eyed
boy of ten curled up among the sofa cushions.

   He held out the book for me to see.

   "Dauntless Ned among the Cannibals," he answered.

   "Is it exciting?" I enquired.

   "Not very," said the child in a matter-of-fact tone. "But
it's not bad."

   I took the book from him and read aloud at the opened page.

   "In a compact mass the gigantic savages rushed upon our
hero, shrieking with rage and brandishing their huge
clubs. Ned stood his ground fearlessly, his back to a
banana tree. With a sweep of his cutlass he severed the
head of the leading savage from his body, while with a
back stroke of his dirk he stabbed another to the heart.
But resistance against such odds was vain. By sheer weight
of numbers, Ned was borne to the ground. His arms were
then pinioned with stout ropes made of the fibres of the
boobooda tree. With shrieks of exultation the savages

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