A well-sleeked motor purred into London last week, its hood piled high with sprays of lilac, armfuls of bluebells. As the car sped down Whitehall, slowed, turned into Downing Street, passing Londoners smiled at the genial Briton who beamed from the tonneau upon the world in general. It was like Premier Baldwin, the Londoners told each other, to go motoring in the country for a few days, recreate himself thoroughly, and then return to grapple with the coal strike, which continued last week...
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