arm. She cried out, her voice vibrating with disappointment:
“Daddy! You promised I should see a Zep to-night." “Never mind, my dear," the father said indulgently. “Bobby, suppose you call up Blank at the War Office and ask where the rascals have gone."
After a time Bobby returned from the telephone. He was apologetic.
"Blank says they're headed for the home fires." Our host drew the curtain and snapped on the lights. We blinked. The pretty girl pouted. She seemed to think her father had somehow failed her.
“A game of bridge," he suggested," or is it too late?
One was rather relieved that the German admiralty couldn't see London intimately that night. Its chagrin would have been too painful. Some time later I chanced to see a quotation from a Munich paper which, recalling that very date, threatened London with similar "nights of terror.”
During the same week I lunched with an officer of one of the guard regiments.
"Of course you know the Zeps were fussing about again last night," he said.
