Rain, rain, go away, come again another day; but the downpour's here to stay. Herr von Papen, despite all his shiftiness, cannot escape a drenching. J. P. Morgan, by now, is practically awash. President Lebrun, with Gallic reasonableness, knows there is going to be more rain, and holds out his hat for it. Eamon de Valera, reelected President of the Free State, is lost in what may turn out to be a real Irish fog. Neville Chamberlain, not without courage, holds his umbrella up against the high winds of inflation, and Stanley Baldwin has gone so far as to fold his up; but nevertheless, the Empire has been soaked. And as for Mr. Hoover, all of him seems rather wet at this moment. Mr. Ford is being protected from April showers—not by the industrial order, but only by a neighbourly parapluie