FROM Who's Who:

WILSON (Stanley Garnet). Born Wednesday, 1st April, 1882. Seventh son of Rev. J. Wilson, Rector of Dudbury, and of Ethel, Mrs. Wilson. Called to Bar 1907. Did not return the call. Lives for social duties in cultured leisure on his strictly private means.

Occupation: None.

One chilly Wednesday afternoon in winter, Flat Y, 'restrained,' 'subdued,' even a little congealed, contained (on a green wall) a black-and-white reproduction of 'Fear, Jealousy, and Hatred' (Rossetti), some 'quiet' furniture, a stationary bookcase (nothing revolving), and Stanley himself.

He did not look frightened; his large, noble, empty-looking forehead and dark wavy hair crowned 'classic' features; and he had always the same sweet and serene expression. He was tall, strong, and looked 'distinguished.' People often asked who on earth he was. But he was not vain; to be called a Greek god was no treat to him, and he was rarely photographed except in profile, with downcast eyes, standing on steps or seated, with a dark background, reading a book.

He liked books; not novels, but something that made one think. His favorite writer was E. V. Lucas. It was only when he had a temperature that he read Ethel M. Dell.

Stanley was wonderfully well. But he did not know this, and at times took care of his health by buying vague medicines, in case they might be good for him. He never took them, for fear they might be bad for him.

One unopened bottle was the only showy ornament in the flat. It was labeled, in huge white letters on blue:

METRODONAL

(Composed of Hexametrine-Flexoline, Hermaphrine Moxoline, and Crimate of Homo.) 137 TIMES MORE ACTIVE THAN MYTHIA! (Absolutely useless; cannot injure heart, liver, or brain if taken in sufficient doses.) Gold Medal: Franco-British Exhibition. (Comm. Académie de Médecine, Nancy.) Prepared by G. FARM, former Chemist to Veterinary Hospital, Nancy, France.

Stanley glanced absently at this bottle, and looked thoughtful as he got out a fountain pen and some roughedged paper. He then put away an invitation card to a dance at Finchley Park (he hated ostentation), and began pacing the room 'like a caged lion,' though he disliked taking steps.

Until last Wednesday, this Juliet business had been the one exciting dream in that long sleep, his life. Then, like a seven years' lease, it had run out. How proud he had been in the old days

last week- of her exactions! Now he was surprised he had ever been thrilled at being 'rung up' while shaving; since he disliked an agitated toilet, and always dressed very quietly. . . .

Decorative, amiable, 'intellectual,' there was yet no great run on Stanley. A strong, silent man? Perhaps people nowadays prefer something weaker and

more loquacious! The taste of the day is flamboyant; and Stanley was not. He had a slow, meaning smile when people talked to him of things he did. not understand, as if he had something up his sleeve.

Women fell in love with him, but only at first sight.

After that glance at May he saw at once that Juliet was an entanglement. Until then, she had been a romance. If it was 'whispered at the clubs' that it was 'Platonic,' Stanley had only himself to blame. He was discreet and thought to compromise a woman was 'not good taste.' No one, except Juliet supposed it to be an engagement.

Whatever it was, it had now to be dissolved. (He did n't like the phrase 'broken off.')

Stanley was epistolary; his fluent stylograph had written many polished letters. When abroad he described the scenery, using phrases to Juliet such as à toi' and 'compagnon de voyage.' (Certain things can only be expressed in French.)

Dante Gabriel Mansions. Tel.: 6699 Kern.
Wednesday.

(1) DEAR MISS PRICE: Circumstances over which I have no control. .. Acquaintance ripened into friendship best for the happiness of all parties. know well how I hate parting.

You

only

Hopeless! He could not write when he had anything to say! Strange! He had, perhaps, never tried before.

.. Flowers? Could he disappear in a cloud of rose leaves? No. Not practicable.

And then how revengeful these cold, clammy women sometimes are! ... Vitriol?— Hardly. She was the daughter of a clergyman.

'No,' he murmured, 'only painful scenes, reproaches, and abuse. Juliet is essentially a lady.'

There was a loud, sudden noise, laughter and bounding footsteps.

He heard Eric's voice on the stairs. Blatant, cheery, but jarring, always, to Stanley.

Stanley was not intimate with anyone except Juliet, and had few men friends. He took no interest in sport, and never went to a club. He could talk - not much, but adequately — only to women. Boys, however, liked to chaff him. Captain Eric Yule was his greatest friend. Then there was young Vernon, the poet. Stanley excused this boy's practice of wearing small boot-buttons as studs and of furnishing his rooms in black-and-white check as youthful foibles; for Vernon appeared to appreciate Stanley's intellectual side. They often had long talks that Stanley supposed to be literary discussions. Severe, yet open-minded, and down on what he called 'the Modern School,' Stanley would say judicially that he found Arnold Ben

nett 'too futuristic.' Vernon had even allowed him once to 'speak' at a literary meeting. He had spoken, distinctly. . .

sessions, his high spirits, his pink face Stanley pitied Eric for his large posand his yellow car.

Eric blew in usually to volunteer information in an unknown tongue, which Stanley pretended to understand.

'Neither, just now, Eric.' 'I'm a bit full of myself to-day. Bucked all to pieces about something.' Eric chuckled.

Stanley would not ask the reason of his joy. He feared Eric might tell him.

Stanley listened through a mist to words like 'binge' and 'blotto' and rattle about restaurants, for he knew poor Eric to be incapable of a feeling of reverence for anything human except one. This one thing was a head waiter. Devoid of social snobbishness, unconsciously almost an atheist, Eric became mute and crimson with pride when recognized in public by Luigi or Charles.

'Really, Eric, I'm not a high-brow. I wonder sometimes what I am,' said Stanley pensively. (He thought it mattered.)

Eric could have told him, but 'Well, why not leave it open?' suggested Eric consolingly.

'Ah!' murmured Stanley, and he seemed to fall into a reverie . . .

Eric jumped up in his sudden way. 'Well, I must stagger forth! Buck up! So long!'

His visit had 'unnerved' Stanley. He opened the door and heard the car, after some choking snorts, yelp down the street.

In the mirror he looked pale. He would soon, surely, be a permanent invalid. . . . That was why he wanted to marry May- -a fresh, spontaneous girl..

He found a letter in the box. Juliet's writing. Mauve, shiny paper.

Another appointment, no doubt. They had met very regularly. He would miss her.

For seven years, he had been at home to tea on the three first Wednesdays in the month, to her alone. The fourth Wednesday he would take her to a play, where he fanned her and explained the plot. They dined, not at the Savoy, and not in Soho, but at 'Jules' on Sundays. Last Wednesday both had been cool and absent. He was 'run down.' She had been sweet, but hurt.

He read:

DEAR STANLEY:

I cannot help seeing that you have changed to me, and think it best for the happiness of both parties that we should become merely friends; this will be a relief to you, and you will be glad, for me, to hear it.

I should mention I am going to be married quite recently on Wednesday next to your friend, Captain Eric Yule. I asked him to tell you, but he may have found you out. It will be a very happy memory to us both, I feel sure. We are going for our wedding trip in a caravan on account of petrol.

With cordial thanks for your kind attention, believe me to remain, dear Stanley,

Your sincere friend,

JULIET PRICE. P.S.-Am posting letters and photos. Excuse haste.

Curious!... Stanley felt, at first, merely a detached admiration of Juliet's

This

Women were wonderful! letter was natural as Juliet herself. It suggested delicate feeling, no rough copies, and just a little agitation. It was perfect. She was going to be married, quite recently. . . . What did that mean?

. . Then he was stunned. He had taken it in.

He was too angry to 'pace' now. He remained 'rooted to the spot.' 'What a woman! what a woman!'- Ungrateful, treacherous! . . . He was madly jealous; he was furious. She had ruined his life. His heart was broken. She had taken the best years of his life and spoiled his future.

. .

Never would he marry May! It would look like petty revenge, or pique. Besides, he could n't stand May. As to Juliet well! He was an Englishman. He would do the right thing. He looked vaguely for help at the green bookcase. What would E. V. Lucas do? .. Big game?— But he could n't shoot!

There was a loud report. Stanley had thrown the bottle of 'Metrodonal' through the window.

[The National Review] MODERN LAWN TENNIS

BY K. McKANE

The ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But right or left, as strikes the player, goes.

THERE is not quite the transparent simplicity which these lines imply in the game of lawn tennis to-day, but there is no doubt that it is the popular game, and that for every one who plays golf or cricket in the summer there are probably at least four who play lawn tennis. The fascination of the game is not hard to understand. It is played

small space, requires only a small number of players, needs no very elaborate instruments, and provides healthy exercise in a most enjoyable and exciting way. It is not difficult to become reasonably proficient at the game, and it is a game which gives unending chances. You may be a set down to your opponent and four or five games behind in a second set and yet win your match. It can be made highly scientific or it can be enjoyed with a minimum of scientific skill. With all these advantages it has yet to win its way into the great public schools, and so long as it is practically banned there seems very little hope of this country ever being able to produce players who are good enough at an early enough age to wrest the championship from the invaders. In United States boys' and girls' clubs are as flourishing, and more so, than ordinary clubs, possessing large numbers of courts and ample scope and encouragement in tournaments and matches of every description.

The outstanding fact about this year's lawn tennis was of course the success, for the first time in the history of the Wimbledon Championships, of an American in the Open Singles. For nearly twenty years the Americans have done their utmost to win the highest honor of lawn tennis, the World's Championships on grass, and for the first time they have succeeded in the person of Mr. W. T. Tilden, whose wonderful all-round play, variety and severity of stroke, and cheerful match-winning temperament took Wimbledon by storm this year. It was his first appearance in the Centre Court, yet he reached the Challenge round with the loss of only three sets, and only lost one set then to the holder. He has since equaled Mr. H. L. Doherty's hitherto unparalleled feat of winning the American Open Cham

pionship in the same year. Not content with this victory in the singles, America secured the Men's Doubles Championship with Messrs. Williams and Garland, the former perhaps in his day the most brilliant exponent of the game in the world and the latter the essence of first-class steadiness, with every good shot and no mistake to mar them. The Ladies' Singles once more left the country and remained in the possession of the French girl champion, who, with Miss Ryan, won the Ladies' Doubles, and with Mr. Patterson, the Australian, secured the Mixed Doubles.

This is a disastrous record as far as this country is concerned, and it is not easy to see where the remedy lies. Every year the critic looks for some rising star in the young men players who enter for tournaments, and every year he seems destined to be disappointed. It is good, therefore, to learn that next year Harrow School has decided to recognize lawn tennis as a school game and thus show the other great public schools the road which may once more lead to the establishment of English supremacy on the court. This year perhaps the most promising discovery was Mr. T. Bevan a young soldier who only played in tournaments late in the season, but who gave signs of developing into a very fine player. Among the ladies the critics commonly say that there are more signs of young players coming on than among the men, and Miss P. L. Howkins, Miss D. C. Shepherd, Miss Kemis Betty, and my sister, Miss M. McKane, have all been cited as promising examples of young English players. But the most regular winners of open tournaments in this country are still to be found among 'the old guard,' both in the men's and ladies' events, and it is the regularity with which the old-fashioned driving

game asserts itself that makes the critics despair.

This is, however, a little unreasonable. It is only comparatively recently that the lady volleyer has appeared on the scenes. A few years ago it would have been considered utterly ridiculous if it had been suggested that a French girl of barely twenty years should come to Wimbledon and sweep all before her in the championships at her first attempt, playing a typical man's game, serving overhead, volleying and hitting with a severity which many men might envy. The old-fashioned ladies' four, in which all the players entrenched themselves on the back line and drove at each other in rallies of interminable length has gone forever. It is recognized now that even the formation of 'one up, one back' is hopelessly outclassed by a pair who can adopt the 'both up' formation.

I have recently seen an interview which Mr. G. L. Patterson gave at Colombo on his return journey to Australia, and his estimate of Mlle. Lenglen is interesting compared with Mr. Tilden's, which will be found in the latter's new book on the game.* * Last year's champion (Mr. Patterson) went so far as to say, 'Very few men of the front rank can beat her level. When I tell you that she can beat a player like Gordon Lowe, you can realize what she must be like.'

Mr. Tilden, however, writes as follows: 'Mlle. Lenglen's speed of foot is marvelous. She runs fast and easily. She delights in acrobatic jumps, many of them unnecessary, at all times during her play. She is a wonderful gallery player, and wins the popularity that her dashing style deserves. She is a brilliant court general, conducting her attack with a keen eye on both the court and the gallery.' He then goes

The Art of Lawn Tennis, by William T. Tilden. Methuen & Co., 6s. net.