Arrived there I attempted to shed a card on the Pope, but was
repulsed by a halbardier in fancy dress; visited the catacombs (by
the way, in the art of catacombing we latter-day sinners have nothing
to learn from the early saints. Why, at Arras in 1917 we---- Oh,
well, never mind now!); kept a solemn face while bands solemnly
intoned Tipperary (under the impression it was the British National
Anthem); bought a bushel of mosaic brooches and several million
picture postcards and acted the perfect little tripper throughout.
Then one day while stepping into a hotel lift I bumped full into
Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur, stepping forth.
You have all of you read the works of Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur (_Passion
Flowers_, _Purple Patches_, etc. Boost and Boom. 6s.); if you
haven't you should, for Wilfrid is the lad to handle the soul-sob and
the heart-throb and warm up cold print generally.
In pre-war days he was to be met with in London drawing-rooms about
tea-time wearing his mane rather longer than is done in the best
menageries, giving a very realistic imitation of a lap-dog. And now
behold him in military disguise parading the Eternal City!
"What are you doing here?" I gasped.
He put a finger to his lips. "Psst!" Then pushing me into the lift,
he ejected the attendant, turned a handle and we shot aloft.
Half-way between heaven and earth he stopped the conveyance and
having made quite sure we were not being overheard by either men or
angels, leaned up against my ear and whispered, "Secret Service!"