ON a Monday morning two missionaries came down to the beach of a little harbor on the Hokchiang coast and boarded a fishing-smack to go over to the Island of the Southern Sun.

As he passed though the station, he slowed to yell to the signalman, Frank 'Sailor' Bridges: Sailor - have you anything between here and Fordham? Where's the mail? Gimbert knew the mail train was due, and he didn't want to endanger another train with his burning bomb wagon.

That he had seen service in India was, indeed, probable by his referring to lunch as tiffin, and calling to his parlourmaid with the ejaculation of “Qui-hi.”

The Englishman has quite justly been accused of insularity. That in itself is bad, but there is a compound insularity for which no word of English exists, because the state of mind is not realised. It is the citified insularity of London, London’s “urbacity.” I had to coin a word for it.