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holding a piece of meat in his hand. He wanted to write something on the meat, but it was too small, so he drew a label and wrote on it: ‘ French guarantees of safety In order that Poincare should not be mistaken for any other European statesman he wrote ‘ POINCARE ’ in block letters on his stomach. On the tables in the art department lay masses of foreign newspapers as well as large cutting-out scissors, httle bottles of Indian ink, and Chinese white. The floor was littered with clippings of photographs; somebody’s shoulders, another person’s legs, and bits of a landscape. Five artists were scraping photographs with razor blades and making them hghter. They were touching them up, making some darker and others lighter, writing the title and size on the back^—' Three and three-quarter inch square ’, ‘ Two columns ’, and so on, which were the necessary instructions for the printers. A deputation of foreigners was sitting in the editor’s room, and the official interpreter was staring at one of the foreigners, who was speaking to the editor. He was saying : ‘ Comrade Arnaud would like to know----- ’ The conversation was about the way in which Soviet newspapers were run, and while the interpreter was explaining to the editor what Comrade Arnaud wanted to know, Arnaud himself, dressed in velvet cycling breeches, and all the other foreigners were examining a huge red penholder with a nib Number 86 that was propped up in one of the comers of the room. The nib was almost touching the ceihng, the barrel of the pen was as fat as an average-sized man, and the pen could be used, for it was a real one. ‘ Ha, ha ! ’ laughed the foreigners. ‘ That’s good.’ ‘ Yes, colossal! ’ The pen had been presented to the newspaper office by the conference of worker correspondents. The editor was sitting on Hippolyte’s chair. He was
