infection wherever it goes!"

It devolved upon me to defend the Government, which I did with some
heat, drawing forth another one-pound note casually, as though I were
made of them, and flourishing it in my hand.

"And anyway," I argued, "Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is not to blame. The note does
not bear his signature, but that of Sir JOHN BRADBURY. And a fine bold
signature it is--why, it's dirt-cheap for the lesson in handwriting
alone."

She did not appreciate that, because hers is a small scrabbed writing.
But I continued mercilessly--

"I bet he doesn't bite _his_ lips when he's signing his name."

"Extremely bad writing, I should call it," she retorted. "Look, you
cannot tell where the '_u_' ends and the '_r_' begins."

"But aside from that," I resumed (I was very proud of this expression,
having picked it up from President WILSON)--"aside from that, turn the
note over, feast your eyes on the picture of the Houses of Parliament.
It too is thrown in for nothing. This at least ought to appeal to you,
with your enthusiasm for Gothic architecture."

If looks could annihilate, that would have been my last boiled egg.

"You think yourself very clever," she said, "and you are supposed to
understand all about money matters. Surely you know of a bank where I
can take these wretched notes and get gold instead, the good old English