"Hang it," I protested, "it's something to have been measured for the

wig."

"_Have_ you been measured for your wig?"

"Well--er--no--that is to say, not exactly what you might call

measured. But--well, the fact is I was just going along now, only--I

say, where do I get a wig?"

"You've done nothing," said Elizabeth--"absolutely nothing."

"I say, don't say that," I began nervously; "I've done an awful lot,

really. I've practically got the costume. I'm going as Harold the

Boy Earl, or Jessica's Last---- Hallo, there's my bus; I've got a

cold, I mustn't keep it waiting. Good-bye." And I fled.

* * * * * * *

"I am going," I said, "as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald.

Think how cool that will be."

"Do you mean to say," cried Elizabeth, "that you have altered again?"

"Don't be rough with me or I shall cry. I've got an awful cold."

"Then you've no business to go as Julius Cæsar."

"I say, now you're trying to unsettle me. And I was going to-morrow

to order the clothes."

"What! You haven't----"

"I was really going this afternoon, only--only it's early closing

day. Besides, I wanted to see if my cold would get better. Because

if it didn't---- Look here, I'll be frank with you. I am going as

Charlemagne."

"Oh!"

"Charlemagne in half-mourning, because Pepin the Short had just died.

Something quiet in grey, with a stripe, I thought. Only

half-mourning because he only got half the throne. By-the-way I

suppose all these people wore pumps and white kid gloves all right?

Yes, I thought so. I wonder if Charlemagne really had black hair.

Anyhow, they can't prove he didn't, seeing when he lived. He

flourished about 770, you know. As a matter of fact 770 wasn't

actually his most flourishing year, because the Radicals were in

power then, and land went down so. Now 771--yes. Or else as Raymond

Blathwayt."

"Anyhow," I added indignantly a minute later, "I swear I'm going

somehow."

* * * * * * *

"Hallo," I said cheerfully, as I ran into her Majesty in Piccadilly,

"I've just been ordering--that is to say, I've been going----I mean

I'm just going to---- Let's see, it's next week, isn't it?"

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless--not at all my idea of the

character.

"Now then," she said at last, "I am going to take you in hand. Will

you trust yourself entirely to me?"

"To the death, your Majesty. I'm sickening for something, as it is."

"How tall are you?"

"Oh, more than that," I said quickly. "Gent's large medium, I am."

"Then, I'll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There's

no need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher."

"Quite--blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the

neck at tenpence, madam, if you'll wait a moment while I sharpen the

knife. Let's see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother,

they've forgotten the strop."

"Well, it may not be a butcher," said Elizabeth; "it depends what

they've got."

* * * * * * *

That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had

hardly any breakfast; simply couldn't look a poached egg in the yolk.

A day on the sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o'clock was my

programme. And then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I

remembered that the dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps

dressed soberly as a black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour

or two ... and----

_Help!_

A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and--no, it's not an eider-down,

it's a coat.

_A yellow---- Pink br----_

I am going as Joseph.

I am going as Swan & Edgar.

I am going as the Sick Duke, by Orchardson.

I am going--yes, that's it, I am going back to bed.

AFTER DINNER

I. THE COMPLETE KITCHEN

I wat in the drawing-room after dinner with my knees together and my

hands in my lap, and waited for the game to be explained to me.

"There's a pencil for you," said somebody.

"Thank you very much," I said, and put it carefully away. Evidently

I had won a forfeit already. It wasn't a very good pencil though.

"Now, has everybody got pencils?" asked somebody else. "The game is

called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' It's quite easy. Will somebody think

of a letter?" She turned to me. "Perhaps you'd better."

"Certainly," I said, and I immediately thought very hard of N. These

thought-reading games are called different things, but they are all

the same really, and I don't believe in any of them.

"Well?" said everybody.

"What? ... Yes, I have. Go on.... Oh, I beg your pardon," I said in

confusion. I thought you---- N. is the letter."

"N or M?"

I smiled knowingly to myself.

"My godfather and my godmother," I went on cautiously----

"It was N," interrupted somebody. "Now then, you've got five minutes

in which to write down everything you can beginning with N. Go."

And they all started to write like anything.

I took my pencil out and began to think. I know it sounds an easy

game to you now, as you sit at your desk surrounded by dictionaries;

but when you are squeezed on to the edge of a sofa, given a very

blunt pencil and a thin piece of paper, and challenged to write in

five minutes (on your knees) all the words you can think of beginning

with a certain letter--well, it is another matter altogether. I

thought of no end of things which started with K, or even L; I

thought of "rhinoceros," which is a very long word and starts with R;

but as for----

I looked at my watch and groaned. One minute gone.

"I _must_ keep calm," I said, and in a bold hand I wrote _Napoleon_.

Then, after a moment's thought, I added _Nitro-glycerine_, and _Nats_.

"This is splendid," I told myself. "_Notting Hill_, _Nobody_ and

_Noon_. That makes six."

At six I stuck for two minutes. I did worse than that in fact; for I

suddenly remembered that gnats were spelt with a G. However, I

decided to leave them, in case nobody else remembered. And on the

fourth minute I added _Non-sequitur_.

"Time!" said somebody.

"Just a moment," said everybody. They wrote down another word or two

(which isn't fair) and then began to add up. "I've got thirty," said

one.

"Thirty-two."

"Twenty-five."

"Good heavens," I said, "I've only got seven."

There was a shout of laughter.

"Then you'd better begin," said somebody. "Read them out."

I coughed doubtfully, and began;

"_Napoleon._"

There was another shout of laughter.

"I am afraid we can't allow that."

"Why ever not?" I asked in amazement.

"Well, you'd hardly find him in a kitchen, would you?"

I took out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. "I don't want to find

him in a kitchen," I said nervously. "Why should I? As a matter of

fact, he's dead. I don't see what the kitchen's got to do with it.

Kitchens begin with a K."

"But the game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' You have to make a

list of things beginning with N which you would find in a kitchen.

You understood that, didn't you?"

"Y-y-yes," I said. "Oh y-y-y-yes. Of course."

"So Napoleon----"

I pulled myself together with a great effort.

"You don't understand," I said with dignity. "The cook's name was

Napoleon."

"Cooks aren't called Napoleon," said everybody.

"This one was. Carrie Napoleon. Her mistress was just as surprised

at first as you were, but Carrie assured her that----"

"No, I'm afraid we can't allow it."

"I'm sorry," I said; "I'm wrong about that. Her name was Carrie

Smith. But her young man was a soldier, and she had bought a 'Life

of Napoleon' for a birthday present for him. It stood on the

dresser--it did, really--waiting for her next Sunday out."

"Oh! Oh, well, I suppose that is possible. Go on."

"_Gnats_," I went on nervously and hastily. "Of course I know

that----"

"Gnats are spelt with a G," they shrieked.

"These weren't. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and

consequently couldn't bite at all, and cook said that----"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry," I said resignedly. "I had about forty of them--on the

dresser. If you won't allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot.

Er--then we have Nitro-glycerine."

There was another howl of derision.

"Not at all," I said haughtily. "Cook had chapped hands very badly,

and she went to the chemist's one evening for a little glycerine.

The chemist was out, and his assistant--a very nervous young

fellow--gave her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the

dresser, it did, really."

"Well," said everybody very reluctantly, "I suppose----"

I went on hastily:

"That's two. Then _Nobody_. Of course, you might easily find nobody

in the kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say.

Three. The next is _Noon_. It could be noon in the kitchen as well

as anywhere else. Don't be narrow-minded about that."

"All right. Go on."

"_Non-sequitur_," I said doubtfully.

"What on earth----"

"It's a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most

restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and

that is technically called a 'follow.' Now, if they didn't give you

a follow, that would be a _Non-sequitur_.... You do see that, don't

you?"

There was a deadly silence.

"Five," I said cheerfully. "The last is _Notting Hill_. I must

confess," I said magnanimously, "that I am a bit doubtful whether you

would actually find Notting Hill in a kitchen."

"You _don't_ say so!"

"Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the

kitchen in Notting Hill. On the other hand, it is just possible

that, as Calais was found engraven on Mary's heart, so, supposing the

cook died---- Oh, very well. Then it remains at five."

Of course you think that, as I only had five, I came out last. But

you are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you

have any word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count

it. And as all the others had the obvious things--such as a

nutmeg-grater or a neck of mutton or a nomelette--my five won easily.

And you will note that, if only I had been allowed to count my gnats,

it would have been forty-five.

II. GETTING THE NEEDLE

He was a pale, enthusiastic young man of the name of Simms; and he

held forth to us at great length about his latest hobby.

"Now I'll just show you a little experiment," he wound up; "one that

I have never known to fail. First of all, I want you to hide a

needle somewhere, while I am out of the room. You must stick it

where it can be seen--on a chair--or on the floor if you like. Then

I shall come back and find it."

"Oh, Mr Simms!" we all said.

"Now, which one of you has the strongest will?"

We pushed Jack forward. Jack is at any rate a big man.

"Very well. I shall want you to take my hand when I come in, and

look steadily at the needle, concentrate all your thoughts on it. I,

on the other hand, shall make my mind a perfect blank. Then your

thoughts will gradually pass into my brain, and I shall feel myself

as it were dragged in the direction of the needle."

"And I shall feel myself, as it were, dragged after you?" said Jack.

"Yes; you mustn't put any strain on my arm at all. Let me go just

where I like, only will me to go in the right direction. Now then."

He took out his handkerchief, put it hastily back, and said: "First,

I shall want to borrow a handkerchief or something."

Well, we blindfolded him, and led him out of the room. Then Muriel

got a needle, which, after some discussion, was stuck into the back

of the Chesterfield. Simms returned, and took Jack's left hand.

They stood there together, Jack frowning earnestly at the needle, and

Simms swaying uncertainly at the knees. Suddenly his knees went in

altogether, and he made a little zig-zag dash across the room, as

though he were taking cover. Jack lumbered after him, instinctively

bending his head too. They were brought up by the piano, which Simms

struck with great force. We all laughed, and Jack apologised.

"You told me to let you go where you liked, you know," he said.

"Yes, yes," said Simms rather peevishly, "but you should have willed

me not to hit the piano."

As he spoke he tripped over a small stool, and, flinging out an arm

to save himself, swept two photograph frames off an occasional table.

"By Jove!" said Jack, "that's jolly good. I saw you were going to do

that, and I willed that the flower vase should be spared. I'm

getting on."

"I think you had better start from the door again," I suggested.

"Then you can get a clear run."

They took up their original positions.

"You must think hard, please," said Simms again. "My mind is a

perfect blank, and yet I can feel nothing coming."

Jack made terrible faces at the needle. Then, without warning, Simms

flopped on to the floor at full length, pulling Jack after him.

"You mustn't mind if I do that," he said, getting up slowly.

"No," said Jack, dusting himself.

"I felt irresistibly compelled to go down," said Simms.

"So did I," said Jack.

"The needle is very often hidden in the floor, you see. You are sure

you are looking at it?"

They were in a corner with their backs to it; and Jack, after trying

in vain to get it over his right shoulder or his left, bent down and

focussed it between his legs. This must have connected the current;

for Simms turned right round and marched up to the needle.

"There!" he said triumphantly, taking off the bandage.

We all clapped, while Jack poured himself out a whisky. Simms turned

to him.

"You have a very strong will indeed," he said, "one of the strongest

I have met. Now, would one of the ladies like to try?"

"Oh, I'm sure I couldn't," said all the ladies.

"I should like to do it again," said Simms modestly. "Perhaps you,

sir?"

"All right, I'll try," I said.

When Simms was outside I told them my idea.

"I'll hold the needle in my other hand," I said, "and then I can

always look at it easily, and it will always be in a different place,

which ought to muddle him."

We fetched him in, and he took my left hand....

"No, it's no good," he said at last, "I don't seem to get it. Let me

try the other hand...."

I had no time to warn him. He clasped the other hand firmly; and,

from the shriek that followed, it seemed that he got it. There

ensued the "perfect blank" that he had insisted on all the evening.

Then he pulled off the bandage, and showed a very angry face.

Well, we explained how accidental it was, and begged him to try

again. He refused rather sulkily.

Suddenly Jack said: "I believe I could do it blindfold. Miss Muriel,

will you look at the needle and see if you can will me?"

Simms bucked up a bit, and seemed keen on the idea. So Jack was

blindfolded, the needle hid, and Muriel took his hand.

"Now, is your mind a perfect blank?" said Simms to Jack.

"It always is," said Jack.

"Very well, then. You ought soon to feel in a dreamy state, as

though you were in another world. Miss Muriel, _you_ must think only

of the needle."

Jack held her hand tight, and looked most idiotically peaceful.

After three minutes Simms spoke again.

"Well?" he said eagerly.

"I've got the dreamy, other-world state perfectly," said Jack, and

then he gave at the knees just for the look of the thing.

"This is silly," said Muriel, trying to get her hand away.

Jack staggered violently, and gripped her hand again.

"_Please_, Miss Muriel," implored Simms. "I feel sure he is just

going to do it."

Jack staggered again, sawed the air with his disengaged hand, and

then turned right round and marched for the door, dragging Muriel

behind him. The door slammed after them....

* * * * * * * *

There is a little trick of sitting on a chair and picking a pin out

of it with the teeth. I started Simms--who was all eagerness to

follow the pair, and find out the mysterious force that was drawing

them--upon this trick, for Jack is one of my best friends. When Jack

and Muriel came back from the billiard-room, and announced that they

were engaged, Simms was on his back on the floor with the chair on

the top of him--explaining, for the fourth time, that if the thing

had not overbalanced at the critical moment he would have secured the

object. There is much to be said for this view.

BACHELOR DAYS

THE BUTTER

"You mustn't think I am afraid of my housekeeper. Not at all. I

frequently meet her on the stairs, and give her some such order as "I

think--if you don't mind--I might have breakfast just a _little_

later--er, yes, about eight o'clock, yes, thank you." Or I ring the

bell and say, "I--I--want-my-boots." We both recognise that it is

mine to command and hers to obey. But in the matter of the butter I

have let things slide, until the position is rapidly becoming an

untenable one. Yet I doubt if a man of imagination and feeling could

have acted otherwise, given the initial error. However, you shall

hear.

There are two sorts of butter, salt and fresh. Now, nobody is so

fond of butter as I am; but butter (as I have often told everybody)

isn't butter at all unless it is salt. The other kind is merely an

inferior vaseline--the sort of thing you put on the axles of

locomotives. Imagine, then, my disgust, when I took my first

breakfast in these rooms eleven months ago, to find that the

housekeeper had provided me with a large lump of vaseline!

I hate waste in small things. Take care of the little extravagances,

I say, and the big ones will take care of themselves. My first

thought on viewing this pat of butter was, "It is difficult, but I

will eat it." My second, "But I must tell the housekeeper to get

salt butter next time."

An ordinary-minded person would have stopped there. I went one

further. My third thought was this: "Housekeepers are forgetful

creatures. If I tell her now, she will never remember. Obviously I

had better wait until this pound is just finished and she is about to

get in some more. Then will be the time to speak." So I waited; and

it was here that I made my mistake. For it turned out that it was I

who was the forgetful creature. And on the fifteenth day I got up to

find another large pound of vaseline on my table. The next fortnight

went by slowly. I kept my eye on every day, waiting for the moment

to come when I could say to the housekeeper, "You will be getting me

in some more butter this morning. Would you get salt, as I don't

much like the other?" Wednesday came, and there was just enough left

for two days. I would speak on the morrow.

But, alas! on the morrow there was another new pound waiting. I had

evidently misjudged the amount.

I forget what happened after that. I fancy I must have been very

busy, so that the question of butter escaped me altogether.

Sometimes, too, I would go away for a few days and the old butter

would be thrown away and the new butter bought, at a time when I had

no opportunity of defending myself. However it was, there came a

time when I had been three months in my rooms, and was still eating

fresh butter; contentedly, to all appearances--in the greatest

anguish of soul, as it happened. And at the end of another month I

said: "Now, then, I really must do something about this."

But what _could_ I do? After eating fresh butter for four months

without protest I couldn't possibly tell the housekeeper that I

didn't like it, and would she get salt in future. That would be too

absurd. Fancy taking four months to discover a little thing like

that! Nor could I pretend that, though I used to adore fresh butter,

I had now grown tired of it. I hate instability of character, and I

could not lend myself to any such fickleness. I put it to you that

either of these courses would have shown deplorable weakness. No, an

explanation with the housekeeper was by that time impossible; and if

anything was to be done I must do it on my own responsibility. What

about buying a pound of salt butter myself, and feeding on it in

secret? True, I should have to get rid of a certain portion of fresh

every day, but...

I don't know if you have ever tried to get rid of a certain portion

of fresh butter every day, when you are living in a flat at the very

top of chambers in London. Drop it out of the window once or twice,

and it is an accident. Three times, and it is a coincidence. Four

times, and the policeman on duty begins to think that there is more

in it (if I may say so) than meets the eye.... But what about the

fire, you will ask. Ah, yes; but I could foresee a day when there

would be no fire. One has to look ahead.

Besides, as I said, I hate waste. As any cook will tell you, the

whole art of housekeeping can be summed up in three words--_Watch the

butter_.

More months passed and more pats of vaseline. Every day made an

explanation more hopeless. I had thoughts at one time of an

anonymous letter. Something in this style:

"MADAM,--One who is your friend says beware of vaseline. All is

discovered. Fly before it is too late. What is it makes the sea so

salt? NaCl. Sodium Chloride. THE BLACK HAND"

That would give her the impression, at any rate, that there _were_

two kinds of butter. Confound it all, by what right did she assume

without asking that I had a preference for fresh?

I have now been in my rooms nearly a year. Something must be done

soon. My breakfasts are becoming a farce. Meals which I used to

enjoy I now face as an ordeal. Is there to be no hope for me in the

future?

Well, there _is_ a chance? I shall have to wait until July; but with

something definite in view I am content to wait.

In July I hope to go to Switzerland for a month. Two days before

returning home I shall write to my housekeeper. Having announced the

day of my return, and given one or two instructions, I shall refer

briefly to the pleasant holiday which I have been enjoying. I shall

remark perhaps on the grandeur of the mountains and the smiling

beauty of the valleys, I may mention the area in square miles of the

country....

And I shall dwell upon the habits of the native.

"... They live (I shall write) in extraordinary simplicity, chiefly

upon the products of their farms. Their butter is the most

delightful I have ever tried. It is a little salt to the taste, but

after four weeks of it I begin to feel that I shall never be able to

do without salt butter again! No doubt, as made in London it would

be different from this, but I really think I must give it a trial.

So when you are ordering the things I mentioned for me, will you ask

for salt butter...."

And if that fails there remains only the one consolation. In three

years my lease is up. I shall take a new flat somewhere, and on the

very first day I shall have a word with the new housekeeper.

"By the way," I shall say, "about the butter...."

THE WASHING

Of course, it is quite possible to marry for love, but I suspect that

a good many bachelors marry so that they may not have to bother about

the washing any more. That, anyhow, will be one of the reasons with

me. "I offer you," I shall say, "my hand and heart--and the washing;

and, oh, _do_ see that six tablecloths and my footer shorts don't get

sent _every_ week."

We affect Hampstead for some reason. Every week a number of shirts

and things goes all the way out to Hampstead and back. I once sent a

Panama to Paris to be cleaned, and for quite a year afterwards I used

to lead the conversation round to travel, and then come out with,

"Ah, I well remember when my Panama was in Paris...." So now, when I

am asked at a dance, "Do you know Hampstead at all?" I reply, "Well,

I only know it slightly myself; but my collars spend about half the

year there. They are in with all the best people."

I can believe that I am not popular in Hampstead, for I give my

laundress a lot of trouble. Take a little thing like handkerchiefs.

My rooms, as I have mentioned, are at the very top of the building,

and there is no lift. Usually I wait till I am just out into the

street before I discover that I have forgotten my handkerchief. It

is quite impossible to climb all the stairs again, so I go and buy

one for the day. This happens about three times a week. The result

is that nearly all my handkerchiefs are single ones--there are no

litters of twelve, no twins even, or triplets. Now when you have a

lot of strangers in a drawer like this, with no family ties (or

anything) to keep them together, what wonder if they gradually drift

away from each other?

My laundress does her best for them. She works a sort of birthmark

in red cotton in the corner of each, so that she shall know them

again. When I saw it first I was frightened. It looked like the

password of some secret society.

"Are there many aliens in Hampstead?" I asked the housekeeper.

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, look here, what I found on my handkerchief. That's a secret

signal of some sort, you know, that's what it is. I shall get mixed

up in some kind of anarchist row before I know where I am. Will you

arrange about getting my clothes washed somewhere else, please?"

"That's because you haven't got your name on it. She must mark them

somehow."

"Then, why doesn't she mark them with my name? So much simpler."

"It isn't her business to mark your clothes," said the housekeeper.

That, I suppose, is true; but it seems to me that she is giving us

both a lot of unnecessary trouble. Every week I pick out this

decorative design with a penknife, and every week she works it in

again. When you consider the time and the red cotton wasted it

becomes clear that a sixpenny bottle of marking ink and a quill pen

would be cheaper to her in the long run.

But she has a weakness for red cotton. The holes in the

handkerchiefs she works round with it--I never quite understand why.

To call my attention to them, perhaps, and to prevent me from falling

through. Or else to say, "_You_ did this. I only washed up to the

red, so it can't be _my_ fault."

If I were married and had a house of my own, there would be no man

below; consequently he wouldn't wear the absurd collars he does. I

get about two of them a week (so even red cotton is not infallible);

and if they were the right size and a decent shape I shouldn't

grumble so much. But I do object to my collars mixing in town with

these extraordinary things of his. At Hampstead, it may be, they

have to meet on terms of equality, more or less; force of

circumstances throws them together a good deal. But in town no

collar of mine could be expected to keep up the acquaintance. "You

knew me in the bath," I can imagine one of his monstrosities saying;

and, "When I am in the bath I shall know you again," would be the

dignified reply of my "16-Golf."

Collars trouble me a good deal one way or another. Whenever I buy a

new dozen, all the others seem suddenly to have become old-fashioned

in shape, and of the wrong size. Nothing will induce me to wear one

of them again. They get put away in boxes. Covered with dust, they

lie forgotten.

Forgotten, did I say? No. The housekeeper finds them and sends them

to the wash. About a month later she finds them again. She is

always finding clothes which have been discarded for ever, and

sending them to the wash.

The mistake is, that we have not yet come to an agreement as to what

really _is_ to go to the wash, and what isn't. There is a tacit

understanding that everything on the floor on Monday morning is

intended for Hampstead. The floor is the linen-basket. It seemed a

good idea at the time, but it has its faults. Things gets on to the

floor somehow, which were never meant for the north-west--blankets,

and parts of a tweed suit, and sofa cushions. Things have a

mysterious way of dropping. Half-a-dozen pairs of white flannel

trousers dropped from a shelf one December. A pair of footer shorts

used to go every week--a pair which I would carefully put down to

take the bath water when I had finished with it. I wonder what those

shorts thought they were doing. Probably they quite fancied

themselves at football, and boasted about the goals they shot to

companions whom they met at Hampstead.

"You're _always_ here!" a pair of local wanderers would say.

"My dear man, I play so hard, I don't care how dirty I get."

The irony of it!

But, worst of all, the laundry-book. Every week the housekeeper says

to me, "Would you pay your book now, as it's been owing for a month?"

And every week I pay. That sounds absurd, but I swear it's true. Or

else the weeks go very quickly.

And such amounts! Great ninepences for a counterpane or a tablecloth

or a white tie. Immense numbers of handkerchiefs, counting

(apparently) twelve as thirteen. Quaint hieroglyphics, which don't

mean anything but seem to get added into the price. And always that

little postscript, "As this has been owing for a month, we must

request...."

And yet they want to put a tax on bachelors!

TAKING STOCK

Beatrice has been spring-cleaning me to-day, or rather my clothes. I

said, wasn't it rather early for it, as none of the birds were

singing properly yet, and she had much better wait till next year;

but no, she _would_ do it _now_. Beatrice is my sister-in-law, and

she said---- Well, I forget what she did say, but she took a whole

bundle of things away with her in a cab; and I _know_ John will be

wearing that purple shirt of mine to-morrow. As a matter of fact, it

was a perfectly new one, and I was only waiting till Lent was over.

Beatrice said the things were all lying about anyhow, and how I ever

found anything to put on she didn't know; but I could have told her

that they were all arranged on a symmetrical plan of my own.

Beatrice doesn't understand the symmetry of a bachelor's mind. I

like a collar in each drawer, and then, whatever drawer you open,

there's a collar ready for you. Beatrice puts them all in one

drawer, and then if you're in a hurry, and open the wrong drawer by

mistake, you probably go up to the office in two waistcoats and no

collar at all. That would be very awkward.

Beatrice actually wanted a braces drawer (if she hadn't married John

I should never let her talk to me about braces), but I explained that

I had only one pair, and was wearing those, so that it would be

absurd. I expect she wanted me to think that John had two pairs.

All I can say, is, that, if he has, he ought to be above taking my

best shirt....

I don't think the waistcoat drawer will be a success. There are

twenty-three of them, and some of them don't blend at all well.

Twenty-three in one drawer--you know there are bound to be disputes.

I see _William_ has got to the top already. Ah! he was a fine

fellow, the first I ever had. I don't quite know how to describe

him, but in colour he was emerald green, with bits of red silk

peeping through. Sort of open-work, you know, only where you would

expect to see me there was more of _William_. I wore him at

Beatrice's wedding. He _would_ come. Only he wouldn't let me into

the vestry. I wanted to sign my name; all the others were. I have

never worn him since that day, but Beatrice has fished him out, and

now he lies on the very top of the drawer.

Of course it's awfully good of Beatrice to take so much trouble about

my clothes, and I'm extremely grateful, and after all she did marry

my brother John; but I think sometimes she---- Well, here's a case.

You know, when you have twenty-three waistcoats you perhaps run a bit

short of--of other things. So, naturally, the few you _have_ got

left, you---- Well, Beatrice took them all away, and said that as I

couldn't possibly wear them again she'd cut them up for house-cloths.

And really--half-way between winter and summer is a very awkward time

for restocking. But I suppose it is going to be warmer now?

_House-cloths_! I bet John has a go at them first.

Beatrice found what they call in the profession a "morning-coat and

vest" under the bed, and said that she would take it away and sell it

for me. I like the way she "finds" things which I have been keeping

for years under the bed. It is absurd to talk about "finding"

anything in a small flat, because, of course, it's there all the

time: but Beatrice thought that I ought to be grateful to her for the

discovery, so I pretended I was. She said she would get at least

half-a-crown for it; but I said I would rather have the coat.

However, it turned out that I wasn't even to have had the

half-crown....

I used to have thirty pairs of old white gloves in a drawer. I would

take them out sometimes, and stroke them affectionately, and say,

"Ah, yes, those were the ones I wore at that absolutely ripping dance

when I first met Cynthia, and we had supper together. You can see

where I spilt the ice pudding." Or--"This was that Hunt Ball, when I

knew nobody and danced with Hildegarde all the time. She wore black;

just look at them now." Well, Beatrice had _that_ drawer out pretty

quick. And now they are on their way to Perth or Paris, or wherever

it is; except Hildegarde's pair, which will just do for the girl when

she cleans the grates. I expect she really will get them you know;

because John doesn't dance.

You know, you mustn't make too much fun of Beatrice; she has ripping

ideas sometimes. She filled a "summer-trunk" for me--a trunk full of

all the clothes I am going to want in the summer. She started with a

tennis-racquet (which, strictly speaking, isn't clothes at all), and

went on with some of the jolliest light waistcoats you ever saw; it

made me quite hot to look at them. Well, now, that's really a good

idea so far as it goes. But what will happen when the summer does

come? Why, we shall have to go through the whole business all over

again. And who'll arrange the winter-trunk? Beatrice. And who'll

get the pink pyjamas and the green socks that there's really no room

for, dear? Why, John.

Yet I am sorry for John. He was once as I am. What a life is his

now. Beatrice is a dear, and I will allow no one to say a word

against her, but she doesn't understand that trousers must be folded,

not hung; that a collar which has once been a collar can never be

opened out and turned into a cuff (supposing one wore cuffs); and

that a school eleven blazer, even if it happens to be pink, must not

be cut down into a dressing-jacket for the little one. Poor John!

Yes, I am glad now that he has that shirt of mine. It is perhaps a

_little_ too bright for his complexion, perhaps he has not _quite_

the air to carry it off; but I am glad that it is his. Now I think

of it I have a tie and a pair of socks that would go well with it;

and even _William_--can I part with _William_?--yes, he shall have

_William_. Oh, I see that I must be kind to John.

Dear Beatrice! I wonder when I shall have everything straight again.

MEDES AND PERSIANS

I have already said that I am not afraid of my housekeeper, so there

is no need for me to say it again. There are other motives than fear

which prevent a man from arguing with housekeepers; dislike of

conversation with his intellectual inferiors may be one, the sporting

instinct is certainly another. If one is to play "Medes and

Persians" properly, one must be a sportsman about it. Of course, I

could say right out to her "Do this," and she might do it. Or she

could say right out to me, "Do that," and I would reply, "Don't be

absurd." But that wouldn't be the game.

As I play it, a "Mede" is a law which _she_ lays down, and to which

(after many a struggle) in the end I submit; a "Persian" is a law

which _I_ lay down, and to which ... after many a struggle ... in the

end ... (when it is too late).... Well, there are many Medes, but so

far I have only scored one Persian of note.

The first Mede was established last winter. For many weeks I had

opened my bedroom door of a morning to find a small jug of cold water

on the mat outside. The thing puzzled me. What do I want with a

small jug of cold water, I asked myself, when I have quite enough in

the bath as it is? Various happy thoughts occurred to me--as that it

was lucky, that it collected the germs, or (who knows?) indicated a

wife with five thousand a year--but it was a month before the real

solution flashed across my mind. "Perhaps," I said, "it was hot

once. But," I added, "it must have been a long time ago."

The discovery upset me a good deal. In the first place, it is

annoying suddenly to have all one's hopes of a rich wife and

protection from disease dashed to the ground; in the second, I object

to anybody but a relation interfering with my moral character. Here

was a comparative stranger trying to instil the habit of early rising

into me by leaving shaving-water outside the door at three A.M. Was

this a thing to be taken lying down?

Decidedly. So I stayed in bed and ignored the water-jug; save that

each morning, as I left my rooms, I gave it a parting sneer. It was

gone by the evening, but turned up again all right next day. After a

month I began to get angry. My housekeeper was defying me; very

well, we would see who could last the longer.

But after two months it was a Mede. Yet I have this triumph over

her. That though I take the water in I ... pour it into the bath and

slip back into bed again. I don't think she knows that.

Since then there have been many Medes. Little ones as to the

position of the chairs; bigger ones as to the number of blankets on

the bed. You mustn't think, though, that I always submit so easily.

Sometimes I am firm. In the matter of "Africa Joe" I have been very

firm. Here, I know, I have right on my side.

A year ago I was presented with a model of an Irish jolting car (with

horse and driver complete), which had been cut out of some sort of

black wood. The thing used to stand over my fireplace. Later on I

acquired, at different times, a grey hippopotamus (in china) and a

black elephant. These I harnessed on in front of the horse; and the

whole affair made a very pretty scene, which was known to my friends

as "Sunday in the Forest: Africa Joe drives his Family to Church."

Besides all these I had yet another animal--a green frog climbing a

cardboard ladder. I leant this against the clock. One had the

illusion that the frog was climbing up in order to look at the

works--which was particularly pleasing because the clock didn't go.

Very well. You have the two scenes on the same mantelboard. One,

the frog as Bond Street watchmaker and jeweller, and the other (such

is Empire), Africa Joe in the heart of the forest. And what does the

housekeeper do? If you will believe me, she takes the frog down from

the clock and props him up behind the car, just as though he were

getting on to it in order to go to church with the others!

Now I do put it to you that this is simply spoiling the picture

altogether. Here we have a pleasant domestic episode, such as must

occur frequently in the African forests. Black Joe harnesses his

horse, elephant, hippopotamus, or what not, and drives his family to

the eleven o'clock service. And into this scene of rural simplicity

a mere housekeeper elbows her way with irrevelant frogs and ladders!

It is a mystery to me that she cannot see how absurd her contribution

is. To begin with, the family is in black (save the hippopotamus,

who is in a quiet grey), so is it likely that they would tolerate the

presence of a garish green-and-yellow stranger? (More than likely

Joe is a churchwarden, and has not only himself to think of.) Then,

again, consider the title of the scene: "Africa Joe _drives_ his

Family"--not "Africa Joe about to drive." The horse is trotting, the

elephant has one leg uplifted, and even the hippopotamus is not in a

position of rest. How then could the frog put a ladder up against a

moving cart, and climb in? No; here anyhow was a Mede that must be

resisted at all costs. On the question of Africa Joe I would not be

dictated to.

But, after re-emphasising my position daily for three weeks, I saw

that there was only one thing to do. The frog must be sacrificed to

the idea of Empire. So I burnt him.

But it is time I mentioned my one Persian. It was this way. In the

winter I used always to dry myself after the bath in front of my

sitting-room fire. Now, I know all about refraction, and the

difficulty of seeing into a room from outside, and so forth, but this

particular room is unusually light, having six large windows along

one of its sides. I thought it proper, therefore, to draw down the

three end blinds by the fireplace; more especially as the building

directly opposite belonged to the Public House Reform Association.

In the fierce light that beats from reform associations one cannot be

too careful.

Little things like blinds easily escape the memory, and it was

obvious that it would be much pleasanter if the housekeeper could be

trained always to leave the end three down. The training followed

its usual course.

Every morning I found the blinds up and every morning I drew them

down and left them there. After a month it seemed impossible that I

could ever establish my Persian. But then she forgot somehow; and

one day I woke up to find the three blinds down.

By a real stroke of genius I drew them up as soon as my dressing was

over. Next morning they were down again. I bathed, dried, dressed

and threw them up. She thought it was a Mede, and pulled them down.

But it was a Persian, and, as I pulled them up, I knew that I had

scored.

Yet, after all, I am not so sure. For it is now the summer, and I

have no fire, and I do not want the blinds left down. And when I

pull them up every morning I really want to find them up next

morning. But I find them down. So perhaps it really is a Mede. To

tell the truth, the distinction between the two is not so clear as it

ought to be. I must try to come to some arrangement with the

housekeeper about it.

THE CUPBOARD

It was the landlord who first called my attention to the cupboard; I

should never have noticed it myself.

"A very useful cupboard you see there," he said, "I should include

that in the fixtures."

"Indeed," said I, not at all surprised; for the idea of his taking

away the cupboard had not occurred to me.

"You won't find many rooms in London with a cupboard like that."

"I suppose not," I said. "Well, I'll let you have my decision in a

few days. The rent with the cupboard, you say, is----" And I named

the price.

"Yes, with the cupboard."

So that settled the cupboard question.

Settled it so far as it concerned him. For me it was only the

beginning. In the year that followed my eyes were opened, so that I

learned at last to put the right value on a cupboard. I appreciate

now the power of the mind which conceived this thing, the nobility of

the great heart which included it among the fixtures. And I am not

ungrateful.

You may tell a newly married man by the way he talks of his garden.

The pretence is that he grows things there--verbenas and

hymantifilums and cinerarias, anything which sounds; but of course

one knows that what he really uses it for is to bury in it things

which he doesn't want. Some day I shall have a garden of my own in

which to conduct funerals with the best of them; until that day I

content myself with my cupboard.

It is marvellous how things lie about and accumulate. Until they are

safely in the cupboard we are never quite at ease; they have so much

to say outside, and they put themselves just where you want to step,

and sometimes they fall on you. Yet even when I have them in the

cupboard I am not without moments of regret. For later on I have to

open it to introduce companions, and then the sight of some old

friend saddens me with the thought of what might have been. "Oh, and

I did mean to hang you up over the writing-desk," I say remorsefully.

I am thinking now of a certain picture--a large portrait of my old

headmaster. It lay in a corner for months, waiting to be framed,

getting more dingy and dirty every day. For the first few weeks I

said to myself, "I must clean that before I send it to the shop. A

piece of bread will do it." Later, "It's extraordinary how clever

these picture people are. You'd think it was hopeless now, but I've

no doubt, when I take it round to-morrow----"

A month after that somebody trod on it....

Now, then, I ask you--what could I do with it but put it in the

cupboard? You cannot give a large photograph of a headmaster, bent

across the waistcoat, to a housekeeper, and tell her that you have

finished with it. Nor would a dustman make it his business to

collect pedagogues along with the usual cabbage stalks. A married

man would have buried it under the begonia; but having no garden....

That is my difficulty. For a bachelor in chambers who cannot bury,

there should be some other consuming element than fire. In the

winter I might possibly have burnt it is small quantities--Monday the

head, Tuesday the watch-chain--but in the summer what does one do

with it? And what does one do with the thousands of other things

which have had their day--the old magazines, letters, papers,

collars, chair legs, broken cups? You may say that, with the

co-operation of my housekeeper, a firmer line could be adopted

towards some of them. Perhaps so; but, alas! she is a willing

accessory to my weakness. I fancy that once, a long time ago, she

must have thrown away a priceless MS. in an old waistcoat; now she

takes no risks with either. In principle it is a virtue; in practice

I think I would chance it.

It is a big cupboard; you wouldn't find many rooms in London with a

cupboard like that; and it is included in the fixtures. Yet in the

ordinary way, I suppose, I could not go on putting things in for

ever. One day, however, I discovered that a family of mice had heard

of it too. At first I was horrified. Then I saw that it was all for

the best; they might help me to get rid of things. In a week they

had eaten three pages of a nautical almanac; interesting pages which

would be of real help to a married man at sea who wished to find the

latitude by means of two fixed stars, but which, to a bachelor on the

fourth floor, were valueless.

The housekeeper missed the point. She went so far as to buy me an

extremely patent mousetrap. It was a silly trap, because none of the

mice knew how to work it, although I baited it once with a cold

poached egg. It is not for us to say what our humbler brethren

should like and dislike; we can only discover by trial and error. It

occurred to me that, if they _did_ like cold poached eggs, I should

be able to keep on good terms with them, for I generally had one over

of a morning. However, it turned out that they preferred a vegetable

diet--almanacs and such....

The cupboard is nearly full. I don't usually open it to visitors,

but perhaps you would care to look inside for a moment?

That was once a top-hat. What do you do with your old top-hats? Ah,

yes, but then I only have a housekeeper here at present.... That is

a really good pair of boots, only it's too small.... All that paper

over there? Manuscript.... Well, you see it _might_ be valuable one

day....

Broken batting glove. Brown paper--I always keep brown paper, it's

useful if you're sending off a parcel. _Daily Mail_ war map.

Paint-pot--doesn't belong to me really, but it was left behind, and I

got tired of kicking it over. Old letters--all the same handwriting,

bills probably....

Ah, no, they are not bills, you mustn't look at those. (I didn't

know they were there--I swear I didn't. I thought I had burnt them.)

Of course I see now that she was quite right.... Yes, that was the

very sweet one where she ... well, I knew even then that ... I mean

I'm not complaining at all, we had a very jolly time....

Still, if it _had_ been a little different--if that last letter....

Well, I might by now have had a garden of my own in which to have

buried all this rubbish.

THE POST BAG

The other day I received a letter from some very old friends of mine

who live in Queen Victoria Street.

_Memo from Messrs Robinson, Cigar Shippers_

MY DEAR SIR,--We have been very anxious at not having heard from you

for nearly a year. We trust that you are in good health and that no

illness or bereavement has kept you from writing to us. As you know,

it is our one ambition to satisfy you in the matter of cigars, and

your long silence on the subject has naturally made us apprehensive.

Until we hear from you, however, we shall refuse to believe that the

last lot you had from us were fatal.

Write to us frankly on the subject. How did you like the cigars we

sent you last Christmas? Were they brown enough? Did they smoke to

a finish strongly? One third shipper, who went to Havana especially

to select this lot for you, writes us that in this respect they were

fit for an ambassador or (we may add) an actor manager. What is it,

then, that you are keeping back from us? Perhaps you could not light

them? If this was the case you should have written to us before, and

we would either have sent you others of a more porous quality or

forwarded you our special gimlet, with which you could have brought

about the necessary draught. Lay bare your heart to us about these

cigars. Do you mind the green spots?

A connoisseur like yourself will, of course, understand that, though

we guarantee that all the cigars sent out by us _can_ be smoked, yet

the quality of the cigar must necessarily vary with the price. This

being so, perhaps you would care to try a slightly higher-priced

cigar this time. We have referred to our books and we see that last

year we had the pleasure of sending you a box of our famous _Flor di

Cabajo_ at 8s. 6d. the hundred. A nicer-coloured cigar is the

_Blanco Capello_ at 9s. 6d.; but we are hoping this Christmas that

you will see your way to giving our celebrated _Pompadoros_, at £5

the hundred, a trial. They have all the features of the _Cabajo_

which you approved, together with a breadth and charm of flavour of

their own. May we send you a box of these?

Our other special lines are:

The _I am Coming_--a spirited young cigar at 7s. 6d. the hundred, of

which we enclose a sample.

The _Mañana_--prompt and impressive--10s. the hundred. (_Note.--This

cigar has a band._)

The _There and Back_--a good persevering cigar. Only 10s. 6d. Never

comes undone.

However we are quite sure that none of these will appeal to such a

fastidious palate as yours must be by now, and that we may

confidently rely on your order for a box of _Pompadoros_.

We may say that if you should unfortunately have completely lost your

taste for cigars we shall be happy to send a box to any friend of

yours. Nothing could make a more acceptable present, and nothing

would endear your friend or his relatives to you so completely.

Now please write to us and tell us what you feel about it. We desire

to make friends of our customers; we do not wish our business to be a

mere commercial undertaking. Talk to us as freely as you would to

your old college chum or fellow-clubman. We insist on being of

service to you. Hoping to hear from you within a day or two, we are,

etc.,

ROBINSON & Co.

I replied at once:

_Memo from Me_

DEAR OLD FRIEND,--A thousand thanks for your sympathetic letter, and

the book with the pictures. Upon my word, I don't know which of the

cigars I like best; they all look so jolly. Are they photographs or

water-colours? I mean, are they really as brown as that? I like the

tall, well set-up one on page 7. I see you say that it smokes

strongly to a finish. That is all very well, Oswald, but what I want

to know is, Does it hang the beginning at all? Some of these cigars

with a strong finish are very slow forward, you know.

Many thanks for the sample. Bless you, Rupert, I didn't mind the

green spots. What do they mean? That the cigar isn't quite ripe

yet, I suppose. But I think you overdo the light brown spots. Or

are they lucky, like those little strangers in the tea?

Yes, I think I must have some of your _Pompadoros_. Send a box at

Christmas to Mr Smithson, of 199 Cornhill, with our love--yours and

mine and the third shipper's. I'll pay. Not at all, Percy, it's a

pleasure. He sent me some last Christmas; as it happened, I left 'em

in the train before I had smoked one; but that wasn't his fault, was

it? I'll get some for myself later on, if I may. You won't mind

waiting?

Dear old soul, you make a mistake when you say I had some cigars from

you last year. I assure you I've never heard of your name till

to-day. That was why I didn't write on your birthday. You'll

forgive me, won't you?

Now it is your turn to write. Tell me all about yourself, and your

children, and the third shipper, and the light brown spots and

everything. Good-bye! Your very loving college chum.

The correspondence concluded thus:

DEAR SIR,--We have received your esteemed order, which shall be

promptly executed. Though the _Pompadoros_ will not be despatched to

your friend till Christmas, they are now being selected and will be

put aside to cool.

We have referred again to our books and find that a box of our

celebrated young _Cabajos_ was indeed despatched to your address last

year, on the advice of Mr Smithson, of 199 Cornhill. This was why we

were so anxious at your long silence. We are, etc.,

ROBINSON & Co.

DEAR OLD SPORT,--I am afraid you misunderstood my last letter. The

_Pompadoros_ are for myself; it was a hundred _I am Comings_ which I

wanted for my friend Mr Smithson. I must tell you a funny thing

about him; as a friend of both of us you will be interested. He

collects cigar bands! I have no use for them myself; so, if it isn't

troubling you, would you send the _Pompadoro_ bands to _him_, as the

_I am Comings_ haven't any of their own? You might put them on the

cigars to save packing. Ever your devoted fellow-clubman.

GOING OUT

Alone, I can get through an At Home with a certain amount of credit.

No doubt, I make mistakes; no doubt people look at me and say: "Who

is that person sitting all by himself in the corner, and keeping on

eating muffins?" but at any rate I can make the function a tolerable

one. When, however, I flutter in under the wing of my sister-in-law,

with my hair nicely brushed and my tie pulled straight (she having

held a review on the doorstep), then it is another matter altogether.

It is then that I feel how necessary it is to say the right thing.

Beatrice has pretty ears, but they are long-distance ones. We

drifted apart immediately but I was sure she was listening.

I found myself introduced to a tall, athletic-looking girl.

"There's a great crowd, isn't there?" I said. "Can I find you some

tea, or anything?"

"Oh, please," she said, with a smile.

I noted the smile, and thanked heaven that I had read my Lady Grove.

In the ordinary way I say to strangers: "Will you take a dish of tea

with me?" but just in time Lady Grove had warned me that this was

wrong. Left to myself I hit upon the word "find." "Can I find you

some tea?" It gives the idea of pursuit. And the "or anything"

rounds it off well--as much as to say, "If I _should_ happen to come

back with a sardine on toast, don't blame _me_."

I found some tea after a long struggle, but by that time I had lost

the athlete. It was a pity, because I was going to have talked to

her about Surrey's victory over Kent at ladies' hockey. I don't know

anything about hockey, but it's obvious that Surrey must play Kent

some time, and it would be an even chance that Surrey would win. The

good conversationalist takes risks cheerfully.

Well, the international having disappeared, I was going to drink the

tea myself, when I caught Beatrice's eye on me.

"Will you have some tea?" I said to my neighbour.

"I think a little coffee, thank you."

"Certainly."

I pressed the tea into the hand of a retired colonel, and hurried

off. Now that shows you. Alone, I should have quoted _The Lancet_

on coffee microbes, and insisted on her having my cup of tea. This

would have led us easily and naturally to a conversation on drinks

and modern journalism. We should have become friends. I should have

had an invitation from her mother to lunch; and I should have smoked

two of her father's best cigars.

As it was I said "Certainly," fetched the coffee, coughed, and

observed that there was rather a crowd. She said "Yes" and turned

away to somebody else. Two good cigars thrown away because of

Beatrice!

I was slowly recovering from my loss when Beatrice herself came up to

say that she wanted to introduce me to a very nice girl called Jane

something. In the ordinary way, very nice girls aren't called Jane

anything, so here evidently was something exceptional. I buttoned my

coat boldly, and followed her, unbuttoning it nervously on the way.

"Here he is," she said, and left us.

This is what they call introducing.

"How do you do?" I started.

"I've heard such a lot about you," began Jane brightly.

I never know what to say to that. There must be a right answer, if

only Lady Grove would tell us. As it was I said "Thank you."

That felt wrong, so I added, "So have I."

"About you," I explained hurriedly. To myself I said, "You know

you're not really carrying this off well. It's idle to pretend that

you are."

"_What_ have you heard, I wonder?" beamed Jane.

Only that her name was Jane something.

"Ah!" I said.

"Oh, you _must_ tell me!"

"I mean, I've heard friends of yours mention your name."

"Oh," she said disappointedly, "I thought you meant----"

"But, of course, everybody has heard of Jane--h'r'r'm--of Miss--er,

um--I think my sister-in-law--yes, thank you, we have a train to

catch, oh, must you really go?--er--good-bye."

I staggered away in pursuit of Beatrice. She dragged me up to an

American girl, as I judged her.

"Here he is," she said, and passed on.

"So glad to make your acquaintance," said the American.

There _is_ no answer to that, I know. I ignored it altogether, and

said:

"Have you seen the Budget?"

"No. What's that?"

"Oh, you must see that."

"I will. We'll go to-morrow. Where is it?"

I don't think Americans see as much of Addison Road as they ought to.

I gave the usual guide-book directions for getting there, and was

just beginning to be interested when I saw Beatrice's inquiring look.

"Are you behaving nicely?" it said. I passed on hastily.

I was very lonely for a while after that. Three times I got a plate

of cucumber sandwiches safely into a corner, and three times a

sisterly eye dragged us out again. After the third failure I saw

that it was hopeless, so I wandered about and tried to decide which

was the ugliest hat in the room. A man is the only possible judge in

a competition of that sort. A woman lets herself be prejudiced by

such facts as that it is so fashionable, or that she saw one just

like it in Bond Street, my dear, at five guineas.

I had narrowed the competitors down to five, two of which were, on

form, certain for a place, when I turned round and saw, in a corner

behind me--

(I don't know if you will believe me)--

A man with a plate of cucumber sandwiches!

I rubbed my eyes in amazement. A man ... at an At Home ... sitting

down and eating cucum---- Why, where was his sister-in-law?

There was only one thing to be done. The favourite in my competition

(green, pink hoops) was disengaged for the moment. I went up to the

man, took him by the arm, and dragged him away from his corner. He

still held the plate in his hand, and I helped myself to a sandwich.

"Must introduce you," I whispered in his ear. "Famous prize-winner."

We pushed our way up to the lady.

"Here he is," I said.

And I looked round triumphantly for Beatrice.

THE SIDESMAN

(For the Third Day running)

For what seemed weeks, but was the last two days,

I'd pottered up and down that blessed baize--

Sorting out aunts in browns and aunts in greys.

For what seemed always, but was only twice

(Looking, if I may say so, rather nice),

I'd lent a hand with hymn-sheets and with rice.

Once more the dear old bells ring out; once more

I linger, pink but anxious, at the door--

This is the third time. Here she comes! Oh, lor'!

* * * * * * *

Something on these occasions goes and thrills

My fancy waistcoat at the first "I will's";

It can't be hopeless love--it must be chills.

Something--a sinking feeling--round the heart

Clutches me closely from the very start,

And tells me I am fairly in the cart.

Something.... And yet the fiercest unconcern

So masks me that the vergers never learn

How underneath my chest I yearn and yearn.

* * * * * * *

"_Wilt thou?_" And (there you are!) profoundly stirred,

A gleam of hope strikes through me--wild, absurd ...

"No luck!" I sigh. "He's on it like a bird."

"_I, Edward John_"--and lonely at the back

I wish my name were Edward; I could hack

Myself that I was never christened Jack.

"_I, Amabel_ (O Amabel!) _take thee_"--

I groan, and give profoundly at the knee:

"There, but for someone else," I say, "goes Me."

* * * * * * *

Fair friends o' mine, what is it tries to shove

My heart into my watch-chain, as above?

It can't be hopeless chills, it must be love.

Yet not for Amabel. No weight of care

Clogs me as I pursue that happy pair

Into the vestry and admire them there;

Save this: I take the clergyman aside--

"Tell me," I whisper--"you're the third I've tried--

Do I, or do I not, embrace the bride?"

AN AWKWARD CASE

This is one of those really difficult cases (being the seventh of the

quarter) where the editor of _The Perfect Lady_ simply has to ask his

readers what _A._ should have done. The sort of reply that will be

given is; "_A._ should have carried it off easily." Remarks like

that are unhesitatingly included among the "_Answers adjudged

idiotic._"

The thing happened in the train, while I was returning to town after

a couple of nights in the country. The scene--an empty carriage,

myself in one corner. On the seat opposite lay my dressing-case. I

had unlocked it in order to take out a book, and was deep in this

when we stopped at a wayside station. The opening of the door woke

me suddenly; somebody was daring to get into my compartment. Luckily

one only--a girl.

Women always wish to travel with their backs to the engine; in the

event of an accident you don't have so far to go. She sat down next

to my bag. Naturally I jumped up (full of politeness), seized the

handle, and swung the thing up on to the rack.

That, at least, was the idea. It was carried out literally, but not

figuratively. The bag went up beautifully; only--on its way it

opened, and the contents showered down upon the seats, the floor,

and--yes, even upon her....

The contents....

This story shows upon what small accidents great events turn. If I

had only been going instead of coming back! A couple of clean

shirts, a few snow-white collars, a pair of sky-blue pyjamas

perfectly creased, socks and handkerchiefs neatly folded--one would

not have minded all these being thrown before a stranger; at least,

not so much. Going, too, the brushes and things would have been in

their proper compartments; they would have swung up on to the rack.

I feel convinced that, if the thing had happened going, I should have

carried it off all right. We should have laughed together, we should

have told each other of similar accidents which had happened to

friends, and we should have then drifted into a general conversation

about the weather. Going ....

But coming back! It was an early train, and I had packed hurriedly.

The brushes and things had been put in anyhow, and they came out

anyhow. There was an absurd piece of shaving soap wrapped up in one

of "An Englishman's Letters." (I always think that things wrapped up

like that look so horrible.) There was a shaving-brush in a pink

piece of _Globe_ lying on the sky-blue pyjamas (and the pyjamas all

anyhow). Then the collars. I do think a dirty collar ... besides I

had screwed them up tightly in order to get them in.... Of course

she wouldn't understand that....

Socks. Now this is too awful. I don't know if I can mention this.

Well--well then, they had two wretched sock-suspenders attached to

them. Odd ones, as I live--black and pink. You see, I had got up in

a hurry, and...

Handkerchiefs. They had been shoved into the pumps. I had been

pressed for space, and...

You know, there were about thirty-nine different things that I wanted

to explain to her. In novels the hero is always throwing upon the

heroine an expressive glance, full of meaning. That is what I

wanted. There is probably, if one only knew it, a shrug, a wave of

the hand, which really does express the fact that you were coming and

not going, and took in _The Times_ yourself, and had packed in a

hurry, and ...

If I could only have handed a Statement to the Press....

And I have yet to mention the unkindest blow of all. The evening

clothes themselves, the only presentable things, stayed in the bag.

If they had come out too, then I might have done something. I should

have left them to the last--conspicuous upon the floor. Then I

should have picked them up slowly, examined them, and nodded at the

braid on the trousers as if to say, "Hang it, that's the sort of man

I am really." I think, if they had come out too, I could still have

carried the thing off....

What should _A._ do? Should he say to the girl, "Close your eyes and

count twenty, and see what somebody's brought you," and then, while

she was not looking, push the clothes under the seat? Should he be

quite calm, and, stretching in front of her, say, "_My_ sock, I

think," or politely, "Perhaps you would care to look at a piece of

_The Daily Mail_?" Should he disown the thing altogether? "I'm very

sorry. Let _me_ put them back for you." That would have been a

master-stroke.

Or should he, to divert attention, pull the alarm, and pay his five

pounds like a man?

But what _did_ _A._ do?

Alas! He did nothing heroic. For one moment he stood there; then he

pulled down the bag, fell on his knees, and began throwing the things

in madly. He picked up the bag, locked it, and put it on the rack.

Then he turned to the girl. Now he was going to have spoken to her.

An apology, a laugh--yes, even now he might have carried it off.

Only he happened to look up ... and he saw above her head the cord of

his pyjamas dangling over the edge of the rack.

REVERIE

Dear Amaryllis,--(may I call you that?

Seeing I do not know your proper name;

And if I did, it might be something dull--

Like Madge). I offer you my broken heart,

Knowing that if you do not want the thing

You will not hesitate to mention it:

Dear Amaryllis, will you please be mine?

We met, 'twas at a dance, ten days ago;

And after sundry smiles and bows from me,

And other rather weary smiles from you,

And certain necessary calculations,

We hit at last upon the second extra,

And made an assignation for the same.

"I shall be at this corner here," you said:

And I "Right O" or words to that effect.

But when the dance came round we both were tired,

So sat it out instead beneath a palm

(Which probably was just as well for you,

And since I love you, just as well for me).

We talked, but what about I can't remember--

Save this: that you were rather keen on golf;

That I had never been to Scarborough;

And both of us thought well of Bernard Shaw.

We talked; but all the time I looked at you,

And wondered much what inspiration led

Your nose to tilt at just that perfect angle;

And wondered how on earth you did your hair;

And why your eyes were blue, when it was black;

And why--a hundred other different things.

Until at last, another dance beginning,

You left me lonely; whereupon I went

Back to the supper-room, and filled a glass

And drank, and lit a cigarette, and sighed,

And asked the waiter had he been in love,

And told the waiter, Yes, I _am_ in love,

And gave him twopence, and went home to bed.

_Am_ I in love? Well, no, I hardly think so.

For one, I'm much too happy as I am;

For two, I shall forget you by to-morrow;

For three, I do not care about your friends,

The men you danced with--bounders, all of them;

For four and five and six and all the rest,

I'm fairly sure we shall not meet again.

Not that I mind. No, as I said before,

I'm very much too happy as I am.

Besides, I shall forget you by to-morrow.

Then why this letter? Well, two incidents

Have led me to it. Here you have them both.

First, then, that sitting in my rooms last week,

Sitting and smoking, thinking--not of you,

Not altogether, but of many things,

Politics, football, dinner and tobacco--

Quite suddenly, this thought occurred to me:

"By Jove, I wish I had a little dog,

A terrier, an Irish terrier,

I wonder if the landlord would object."

And thinking thus, I rose and sighed, and bent

To take my boots off. Had a mouse appeared

I could have loved it in my loneliness.

Had but the humblest cockroach shown his head,

I think I would have said "Good-night" to it.

This too (I give it you for what it's worth):

Next morning, passing through St James's Park,

A morning for the gods, all blue and white,

I heard what, strictly, should have been a skylark,

(But, probably, was quite a common bird)

Offering up its very soul to heaven.

Then suddenly I stopped and cried, "Oh, Lord!

Oh, Lord!" I cried, "I wish it were the spring."

* * * * * * *

So there you have it. Now it's off my chest.

Just for one moment you upset me slightly,

Disturbed my usual calm serenity,

Got in my head, and set me vainly wishing

For April, and the country, and one other...

But that is over. I am whole again.

Good-bye! I shall not send this letter now.

I find I have forgotten you already.

RETROSPECT

Looking back on the past year I can see that it has been (as usual)

one of noble endeavour--frequently frustrated, but invariably well

meant. In accordance with the custom of the newspapers I have set

down here its record of achievement in the different provinces of

art, bicycling and the like; and I offer this to the public in full

confidence of its sympathy and appreciation.

ART

We have had our photographs taken for the first time for many years,

and if the result isn't art I don't know what is. The photographer

said: "Would you like them _en silhouette_ or straight-fronted?" We

said in French that we had thought of _carte-de-visite_. The result

is a sort of three-quarter face with one wing forward, and the man

insists that we must have looked like that once. The only other

achievement in the world of art is a moleskin waistcoat of some

distinction. I had no idea that moles were that colour, but the man

swore that when you had taken the feathers out of them you found

quite a different coloured skin underneath. As he has been there and

I haven't, I cannot argue with him. Altogether a good year for art.

BICYCLING

At the beginning of the year our eldest brother sold our bicycle for

a sovereign and gave the sovereign to our second brother. A bad year

for bicycling therefore.

SCIENCE

(I thought for the moment science began with a C, which is why it

comes in here.)

Several important discoveries have been made in the year. For

instance, the small white raspberries in tapioca pudding are _meant_

to be there; you always thought that they had got in from some other

dish, when the cook wasn't looking. And when your watch gains a foot

you don't put the regulator to A because it is advancing, but to R

because you want to retard it. (Or else the other way round--I have

forgotten again. Anyhow, I found out that I had been doing it

wrong.) Another discovery made in the early part of the year was the

meaning of the phrase "Bank Rate Unchanged," but that is too

technical to explain here. A record year for science.

FINANCE

The old system of keeping no accounts and never filling in the

counterfoils of cheques again answered admirably.

GAMES

The past year marks an epoch in the history of games. We have

retired from football and are not the cricketer we were; but, on the

other hand, we have made immense strides in croquet. We improve

slowly at billiards. In November we potted the red rather neatly,

and everybody said, "There's no getting away from that--he _must_

have meant it." As a matter of fact ... but it would spoil it to

explain. In the latter part of the year we could have shown you a

trick or two at tennis. That is all, except that I can no longer

jump the ancestral herbaceous border, as the gardener keeps on

discovering.

HYDROSTATICS

Archimedes' Principle--that if a heavy body gets into a cold bath

quickly an equal amount of water gets out on to the mat quickly--was

demonstrated daily, to the complete dissatisfaction of the man on the

floor below, who, however, made a still more important discovery in

this interesting branch of dynamics--viz. that water does not find

its own level, but prefers something about ten feet lower down.

INDIGO

Indigo has maintained its _status quo_ throughout the year. There

have been occasions during this time when we had almost decided to be

an Indigo planter in Assam rather than stick it in this beastly

country. On each occasion the weather cleared just before we had

packed the sandwiches.

MUSIC

Space and time alike fail us to tell of our notable triumphs upon the

pianola in the year that has just elapsed. We have played the Sonata

Appassionata and "Shuffling Jasper" with equal _verve_ and

_chiaroscuro_. The fruitness and nutty flavour of our rendering of

Remorse--Valse Tzigane, No. 1,192,999, kindly return by the end of

the month--will never be forgotten. In July one of the black notes

stuck down and refused to budge for some time; but we got it up at

last with a potted-meat opener. I say, I don't think much of Liszt.

He has pace and staying power and is a good strider; quite a useful

man over timber he might be; but he is a little lacking in--what

shall I say, _Adagio con molto expressione ma non troppo_, if you

know what I mean.

PETS

Walter, the white mouse, perished in May. The doctor said it was too

much exercise on an empty--well, he put it rather crudely. You know

what doctors are. And you know how white mice _will_ exercise. The

tailor said Walter was too small to make up into a white waistcoat,

even an evening one, and that he would be hopeless as a tie. I

advertised for a white mole, but they seem to be rare. Altogether it

was a sad year for pets.

THOUGHT

Perhaps the past year was, above all, a year for thought. To the

pursuit of thought we devoted many days in many positions. Some

people would find it impossible to think properly immediately after

breakfast but we proved that, given a sufficiently comfortable chair,

the impossible could be achieved, that one could be as thoughtfully

busy in the morning as in the afternoon.

XYLONITE

We did not do any of this.

YCLEPT

We were yclept every morning punctually at eight (and arose

punctually at nine thirty) throughout the year.

ZEUGMA

I suppose you thought I couldn't do X. Y. Z. Well, this is just to

show you. In the ordinary way, of course, I should have referred to

the zeugma under music. We ordered a low-strung one last month, but

it has not yet been delivered.

* * * * * * *

So much for my record of the past year. Reading it over now I feel

that I have not spent the last twelve months in vain. At the end of

them I can say truthfully that I am, if not a year wiser, at least a

year older, a year fatter. And still a happy bachelor.

LETTERS TO CHARLES

I

DEAR CHARLES,--Can you lend me a penny? I have just been making up

my accounts for the day (the idea occurred to me suddenly; it's a

thing I have never done before) and I am seven shillings and a penny

out. The seven shillings I don't mind, but the penny worries me

dreadfully. I think that if you lent me another one I should

gradually be able to settle down again.

I lie when I say I have never made up accounts before--I did it on

one memorable occasion years and years ago. When John and I were at

school we had certain expenses, such as subscriptions to the mission

and to various house competitions, train fares, masters' wedding

presents, haircutting and so on, which did not come out of our pocket

money or tips, but which were specially sent to us from home. To

save the trouble of this we were given, at the beginning of one term,

five pounds to see us through all these expenses, with the

understanding that we were to account for it afterwards.

"Afterwards" meant the holidays, which (to begin with) were a long

way off. As they came nearer we consoled ourselves with the thought

that the required "account" was a mere formality which would probably

not be insisted upon; the actual money had been spent--which after

all was the main thing, the idea of the whole proceeding, so to say.

To wish to linger over the details of its gradual dissolution would

be morbid. However to our horror a day did come in the holidays when

we were peremptorily ordered to provide our account and to hand over

the balance.

There is, as you know, Charles, never any difficulty about providing

an account--the trouble is to hand over the balance. In our case the

balance was exactly nothing, we had not a penny in our pockets. The

money had been spent all right, an unusual number of masters having

been married that term (some of them for the third or fourth time in

the year), but we could not possibly make up our accounts so that to

a farthing the two sides balanced. It would look so unnatural. How

could we march solemnly into the library and say "By a perfectly

amazing coincidence the money you gave us was just precisely the

amount which the circumstances demanded. There is no balance."

It was a very hot afternoon, and we were unhappy. The matter of the

accounts was not the only shadow which hung over us. John had a fox

terrier--so had I; but whereas my dog was a Little Englander, and

stayed at home, John's was an Imperialist, who roamed the country.

He had disappeared again the night before, and had been observed in

the morning in a village three miles away. Thither toiled John in

search of him that hot afternoon, his heart torn between his love for

his dog and his duty to his parents. And Rags and I remained at home

to see what we could make of finance.

We made but little of it. The more I thought of it, the more

impossible it seemed to say that every penny (no more, no less) of

the five pounds had been spent properly. One idea I had which

touched genius--namely, to furnish an account for five pounds ten

(say) and point out that the balance was owing to us. Ours was

always a great family for ideas. But you see the weak spot,

Charles--that we hadn't demanded the ten shillings long ago.

And then John returned. No, he had not found his dog, but he had

found a shilling in the road. He had spent (he simply had to spend,

he said) a penny ha'penny on refreshment, but the tenpence ha'penny

he had brought back joyfully. And in the evening a beautiful account

(on the double-entry system) and tenpence ha'penny balance were

handed over with ceremony.

So much for finance, Charles. Now I've got some news for you. _I've

just had a nephew_! (Uncle doing well.) Did you know? Look here,

we'll arrange a sporting match between him and your son over hurdles

for 1922. Your boy will still be a year older, but, bless you, I

don't mind that. My nephew is so ugly at present that I feel he must

be intended for the highest honours at something. Probably hurdles.

Of course if either of us perishes in the meantime the nominations

become void. ("The nominations become void"--did you notice that?

Quite the sportsman.)

What sort of weather are you having? I ask because the weather

differs according to the locality, and down at Castle Bumpbrook it

may be quite fine, while it is raining here, and _vice versa_. Why

is this? Why shouldn't the weather be the same everywhere?

Something to do with the solstices, I believe. What is a solstice?

(I have asked you no end of questions in this letter, and I don't

suppose you will answer one of them.)

Do you grow oranges at Castle? (Forgive the familiarity.) Exhausted

by my divings into the remote and wicked past, I have just eaten

about six. I get through quite a dozen a day. The fact is I heard a

doctor say the other night that they were extremely good for the

complexion--or else extremely bad, I couldn't quite catch which. He

spoke very indistinctly. It was a pity that I missed what seems to

have been the important word; it wouldn't have mattered so much about

the "extremely." However, I go on eating them, and if one day you

turn up in town and find me a full-blown mulatto, you will know that

the word was "bad." I shall become a sort of test case, like

"Wreford _v._ Partington (1883)." Eminent people will refer to me.

How nice to be referred to--not that it would be the first time.

"Refer to drawer," I remember on my cheques at Cambridge. That, sir,

was me.

Do you know, I made up the names Wreford and Partington on the spur

of the moment. The names are simple enough, but I think the

combination is wonderful. There must have been such a case in 1883.

Who do you think Wreford was? I fancy he was a small chandler, and

he fell down the coal shoot of Partington's in Cannon Street. James

Partington, the senior partner, said (fairly enough) that a great

firm like his, which had branches all over England (including

Norwich), must have coal some time, if they were to cope successfully

with increasing foreign competition, which, owing to the present

Gov---- Oh no, this was 1883; I forgot. Well, anyhow, he said they

must have coal. Wreford retorted that he didn't mind their putting

coal down their shoot, but when it came to including respectable

citizens of London----

You remember the excitement when the case came on? We were only

babies then, but I have a recollection that my nurse was a

pro-Partington. Wreford won, but as he was heavily fined for having

knowingly caused a crowd to collect it did him little good, poor man.

Good-bye. Write to me soon and tell me all about Castle Bumpbrook.

What a glorious name. I often say it to myself. It is the only

strong language I ever use now.

II

DEAR CHARLES,--Many thanks for your definition of a solstice. Is it

really? Fancy! By answering one of my questions you become a unique

correspondent. Nobody else answers questions in a letter.

Sometimes, of course, one is asked, "What train are you coming down

by on Saturday? Let me know at once." But the proper thing to do in

such a case is to wait till Saturday afternoon, and then wire "Just

missed the two twenty-two. Hope to catch the next." Questions in

letters are mostly rhetorical; which is why I ask you, How, oh, how

could you have the nerve to head your paper "Castle Bumpbrook," and

fill it with arguments against the Budget? It is hardly decent. You

know, I doubt if you ought even to have heard of the Budget at Castle

Bumpbrook.

What I expect from you is pleasant gossip about the miller's

daughter. Is she engaged yet to the postman? Has the choir begun to

practise the Christmas anthem? When does Mrs Bates' husband come

out? These are the things you should tell me. Tell me, too, of your

simple recreations. Has whist reached Castle Bumpbrook yet? It is a

jolly game for four. One person deals and you turn up the last card,

and then the---- But I must send you a book about it.

I have been having a correspondence with my landlord as to what I

should do in case of fire. Of course, if your little cottage got

alight, you would simply hop out of the window on to the geranium

bed; but it is different in London. Particularly when you are on the

top floor. Well, he tells me that I can easily get out on to Mr

Podby's roof next door ... and so home. This is certainly

comforting, but--Podby! I don't like it, Charles. Supposing

anything happened, just think how it would look in the papers. "The

unfortunate gentleman was last seen upon Mr Podby's roof...." No, I

shall have to go for the drain-pipe at the back.

Look here, I have two stories to tell you. One is quite true, the

other isn't. Which will you have first? All right, the truth.

When I first came to town I was very--I mean I believed everything I

was told. One Sunday I met a small but elderly gentleman on the

Embankment, who asked me the way to the German Embassy. He had the

river to his south, so obviously all the embassies were in the other

direction. I pointed vaguely towards the north. He thanked me and

said that---- (By the way, do you prefer _oratio recta_? I forgot

to ask you.) Well, then, he said:

"The embassies would be shut on a Sunday, hein?"

I said: "Doubtless."

He said: "I am a Professor at Heidelberg. I have just arrived in

London, and I have no money. To-morrow I go to my Embassy and get

some. Meanwhile, could you lend me five shillings?"

Charles, in those days I was very---- Well, I gave him half-a-crown.

He said: "I should like to pay this back to you."

I said: "Quite so. That is the idea."

"Then would you give me your card, so that I can send you the money

to-morrow?"

Charles, I---- You see, I had just had some cards printed. They had

"Mr" on for the first time. I was very---- Well, I gave him one.

That ends the first scene. An interval of nearly five years elapses,

and we come to last Saturday. I was walking through the Green Park,

when a small but elderly gentleman came up to me.

He said: "Is this the way to the School of Music?"

I said: "Which one do you want? There is the Guildhall School, and

the Royal College, and the Royal Academy, and----"

He thought for a moment, and then he said in German the German for

"Do you speak German?" (My dear Charles, I _can't_ spell it). I said

"Nein."

He considered a little, and said, "Parlez-vous français?" I

said--(What's the French for "Not very well"? Well, that's what I

said).

At this his face brightened. He drew a long breath, and began:

"I am a Professor of Music at Heidelberg----"

Charles, I had to interrupt him. I simply couldn't help it. I said;

"Then you owe me half-a-crown." He stopped, and looked at me with a

sort of sad dignity. Then he turned round with a sigh and plodded

wearily across the park. And, oh, I do hope he had better luck with

somebody else, because he has been at it for five years now, and it

must be a heart-breaking life. His hair had gone quite grey since I

saw him last.

Charles, you do see that that is a true story, don't you? If I had

been making it up, I should have said that he gave me back my own

card as a reference. I wonder why he didn't. I suppose it had got

rather dirty after five years.

Do you want the other one now? It is the merest anecdote, and Hilda

told it me, and I know it's not true.

She has a cat called "Didums poor little kitty wee, then"; you put

the accent on the "then," and spread it out as long as you can.

Well, Didums, etc., goes about eating moths; a curious diet for a

cat, but I believe it keeps them thin. He swallowed them whole, you

know, and Hilda told him how cruel it was. She seems to have spoken

of the sufferings of the imprisoned ones in the most moving terms.

Anyhow she found Didums next day up in her bedroom remorsefully

eating a sealskin coat.

I am surprised at Hilda. If she is not careful her baby will grow up

a journalist. I have seen him since he came back from you. This

time I approached from the west, and I noticed a great difference.

He is certainly a fine child, and as he let me put him to sleep I

love him. After all, looks don't matter tuppence to a man. The

great thing is wisdom. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. I

remember a General Knowledge Paper in my Mays. One of the questions

was "Give a list of the chief coaling-stations you would pass on your

way to New Zealand." The only two I could think of were Cyprus and

Rickett Smith. I never heard whether I got full marks: probably not.

But since that day knowledge has come for I have a friend in the

Admiralty. He was a very high wrangler the year I wasn't, and just

as Fisher is the man behind the First Lord, so he is the man behind

Fisher; at least, he tells me so. And he buys his tobacco by the

knot--or is it the quid?--and plays the Hague Convention at bridge,

and (as I say) knows all the coaling-stations from Cambridge to New

Zealand.

Wisdom Lingers. What a splendid title for a novel. You would expect

a fine moral tale, and it would turn out to be the story of the

Lingers family. Wisdom K. Lingers. There you have the essence of

successful book-naming. I hand the idea to you, Charles, in the

certainty that you would steal it anyhow.

Do you know anything about gas? I buy a lot every week for my

geyser. You get about 1000 for half-a-crown. A thousand what? I

don't know; but I like to take part in these great business

transactions, and I am now writing to ask if they could make it 1200

seeing that I am a regular customer. No harm in asking.

III

DEAR CHARLES,--Do you truly want me to recommend you something to

read? Well, why not try the serial story in some ha'penny paper?

There you get a glimpse of the real thing. I turned idly to "Lepers

in Israel" (or whatever it is called) last night, and found myself

suddenly up to the neck in tragedy. Lord Billingham ...

Charles, you're a married man, tell me if it really is so. The

gentle Pamela is urged by a cruel mother to espouse Lord Billingham

for his money's sake. Lord B. is a vulgar brute, I'm afraid; in any

case Pamela is all for young Prendergast; but one must be sensible,

you know, and money does make a difference, doesn't it? So she

becomes Lady Billingham; and a year or two later Prendergast comes

back from South Africa to find that it is he who is the real Lord

Billingham after all. (I got most of this from the "synopsis," which

enables you to start the story now, so I can't say how it was they

overlooked him in the first place.) It would be extremely cruel (you

see that, Charles?) to talk about it, because Pamela would then

become plain Mrs Stubbs, and no money at all; so Prendergast decides

to say nothing to anybody. But he was reckoning without Mrs

Trevelyan, no less. Mrs Trevelyan finds out the secret, and

threatens Prendergast that she will tell everybody that he is the

real Lord Billingham unless he marries her. So of course he has to.

It is at this moment that we meet Captain Pontifax. Captain Pontifax

is in love with Mrs Trevelyan, at least he thinks he is, and he says

that if she doesn't marry him he will let on about what happened to

Mr Trevelyan, who was supposed to have died of old age. At the same

time the news gets out that Prendergast is really Lord Billingham,

and so Pamela does become Mrs Stubbs; and, as Prendergast cannot

honourably withdraw from the alliance he is about to contract with

Mrs Trevelyan, it looks as though she is going to be Lady Billingham.

But on the eve of the wedding a body is found at the bottom of the

old chalk quarry.... Whose? ...

What I want to hear from you, Charles, is, Do people always get

married for this sort of reason? Are you really the Duke of Norfolk,

and did Kitty discover your secret and threaten to disclose it? Oh,

you coward! I don't mind anybody knowing that I am the true Earl

Billingham.

About the body. We shall know to-morrow. I think it's Captain

Pontifax myself, but I will send you a telegram.

Are you an authority on dress? A man got into my carriage on the

District to-day wearing a top-hat, a frock-coat, and brown boots. Is

that right? I ask it seriously, because the point I want to discover

is this: Supposing you suddenly found that you had nothing in the

house but brown boots and a frock-coat, would a bowler or a topper be

the better way out of it?

You see the idea, Charles. If you add a bowler then the thing you

have to explain away is the coat. I don't quite see how that is to

be managed; you could only put it down to absent-mindedness. But if

you add a topper then you have only the brown boots to account for.

This could be done in a variety of ways--a foggy morning, a sudden

attack of colour-blindness, or that your mother asked you to wear the

thickest ones, dear, and never mind about the silly fashion. It is

an interesting point which has never been dealt with properly in the

etiquette-books. You and I are agreed upon the topper, it seems.

I went to a play last Tuesday. It was not bad, but the funniest

scene happened right at the beginning, when I watched an American buy

a seat at the box-office. They gave him J13., and he only discovered

it after he had paid for it, and had put his change carefully away.

Do you know, Charles, he nearly cried. The manager assured him there

was nothing in it; people sat there every night, and were heard of

again. It was no good. He got his money back, and went away looking

quite miserable. Isn't it childish? I am going to be married on

Friday, 13th May, just to show. When is that? Sickening if it's not

for years and years. I have a patent calendar somewhere which tells

you the date for any year up to 1928. I never know why it should

stop there; something to do with the golden number getting too big.

It won't go backwards either, which is a pity, because I have always

wanted to know on what day of the week I was born. Nobody will tell

me. It was one of the lucky days I am sure. How can I find out?

(_To-morrow._)--I have just sent you a telegram to say that it was

Sir Richard Tressider's body. Strange that you hadn't thought of

him. Charles, I felt very shy in the post office. Yes, about Castle

Bumpbrook. She didn't believe there was such a place; I offered to

bet. We went through the Telegraph Directory together. Do you know,

you come in the Castles, not in the Bumps at all. (Put me among the

Bumps.) Something ought to be done about it. I always thought

Castle was your Christian name, kind of.

Yes, it was Sir Richard's corpse. It occurs to me now that you will

get this letter a day after the telegram. How did I put it?

"Body believed to be that of Sir Richard Tressider. Death certified

as by drowning. Inspector Stockley suspects foul play."

An elevenpenny touch, Charles, and I never signed it, and you'll

wonder what on earth it's all about. Probably you will dismiss it as

a joke, and that would be elevenpence thrown away. That cannot be

allowed. You can get a telegram repeated at half-price, can't you?

I think I shall go and have a fivepenny-ha'penny repeat.

I say, what are you doing about the weather? Are you taking it lying

down? I want to sign a petition, or write to my M.P. (haven't got

one, then I shall write to yours), humbly showing that it's the

rottenest do there's ever been. Do you remember the story (it comes

in Gesta Romanorum, or should) of the man who built a model of

another man and threw things at it, and the other man sat in a bath

with a mirror in his hand and whenever the first man threw he ducked

under the water. If he got under in time his enemy missed, and it

was all right. Otherwise he was killed. Well, I am going to rig up

a Negretti in my room, and throw boots at it, and if the original has

to spend all his time in a cold bath ducking, I _think_, Charles, we

shall get some warmer weather soon.

"Oh, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day."

Charles, in your courting days was she ever as cold to you as this?

IV

DEAR CHARLES,--Don't talk to me about politics, or the weather, or

anything; I have lost my tobacco-pouch. Oh, Charles, what is to be

done? It is too sad.

I bought it in a little shop at Ambleside, my first, my only friend,

on the left-hand side as you go down the hill. It was descended from

a brown crocodile in the male line, and a piece of indiarubber in the

female; at least, I suppose so, but the man wouldn't say for certain.

He called it a trade term. I smoked my first pipe from it--on the

top of Scafell Pike, with all England at my feet. The ups and downs

it has seen since then--the sweet-smelling briars it has met! In

sickness and in sorrow it comforted me; in happiness it kept me calm.

Old age came upon it slowly, beautifully. In these later years how

many men have looked at it with awe; how many women have insulted it

and--stitched its dear sides together!

It passed away on a Saturday, Charles; this scion of the larger

Reptilia, which sprang into being among the mountain-tops, passed

away in a third-class carriage at Dulwich! The irony of it! Even

Denmark Hill---- But it matters not now I have lost it. Nor can I

bear that another should take its place. Perhaps in a year or two

... I cannot say ... but for the present I make shift with an

envelope.

Two thoughts sustain me. First, that no strange eye will recognise

it as a tobacco-pouch, no strange hand (therefore) dip into it.

Secondly, that the Fates, which have taken from me my dearest

possession, must needs have some great happiness in store for me.

Charles, I perceive you are crying; let us turn to more cheerful

things. Do you play croquet? I have just joined a croquet club

(don't know why), and one of the rules is that you have to supply

your own mallet. How do you do this? Of course, I know that

ultimately I hand a certain sum of money to a shopman, and he gives

me a very awkward parcel in exchange; but what comes before that? I

have often bought a bat, and though I have not yet selected one which

could make runs, I can generally find something which is pretty

comfortable to carry back into the pavilion. But I have never chosen

a mallet. What sort of weight should it be, and is it a good thing

to say it "doesn't come up very well"? I have, they tell me, a

tendency to bowness in the legs and am about a million round the

biceps; I suppose all that is rather important? Perhaps they have

their mallets classified for different customers, and you have only

to describe yourself to them. I shall ask for a _Serviceable mallet

for a blond_. "Serviceable" means that if you hit the ground very

hard by accident it doesn't break; some of these highly strung

mallets splinter up at once, you know. As a matter of fact, you

can't miss the ball at croquet, can you? I am thinking of golf.

What about having a splice with mine; is that done much? I don't

want to go on to the ground looking a perfect ass with no splice,

when everybody else has two or three. Croquet is a jolly game,

because you don't have to worry about what sort of collar you'll

wear; you just play in your ordinary things. All the same, I shall

have some spikes put in my boots so as not to slip. I once took in

to dinner the sister of the All England Croquet Champion. I did

really. Unfortunately I didn't happen to strike her subject, and she

didn't strike mine--_Butterflies_. How bitterly we shall regret that

evening--which was a very jolly one all the same. Here am I, not

knowing a bit how to select a mallet, and there possibly is she,

having just found the egg of the Purple Emperor, labelling it in her

collection as that of the Camberwell Beauty. Let this be a lesson to

all of us.

Charles, I feel very silly to-night; I must be what they call "fey,"

which is why I ask you--How would you like to be a pedigree goat? I

have just seen in an evening paper a picture of Mr Brown "with his

pedigree goat." Somehow it had never occurred to me that a goat

could have a pedigree; but I see now that it might be so. I think if

I had to be a goat at all I should like to be a pedigree one. In a

way, I suppose, every goat has a pedigree of some kind; but you would

need to have a pretty distinguished one to be spoken of as a P.G.

Your father, Charles, would need to have had some renown among the

bearded ones; your great-uncle must have been of the blood. And if

this were so, I should, in your place, insist upon being photographed

as a pedigree goat "with Mr Brown." Don't stand any nonsense about

that.

If I ever have a goat, and you won't let me call it Charles, I shall

call it David. My eldest brother, you, know, was christened David,

and called so for a year; but at the end of that time we had a

boot-and-knife-boy who was unfortunately named David too. (I say

"we," but I was still in the Herebefore myself.) This led to great

confusion. When the nurse called for David to come and take his

bottle, it was very vexing to find the other David turning up with a

brown shoe in one hand and a fish-knife in the other. Something had

to be done. The baby was just beginning to take notice; the leather

polisher had just refused to. In the circumstances the only thing

was to call the baby by his second name.

Two or three years passed rapidly, and I arrived. Just as this

happened, the boot-boy took the last knife and went. Now was our

chance. My second name had already been fixed; it was immediately

decided that my first should be David. The new boot-boy didn't mind

a bit; everybody else seemed delighted ... and then someone

remembered that in ten years' time I should be going to school.

Yes, Charles, the initials D.A.M.... You know what boys are; it

would have been very awkward.

And so now you see why I am going to call my pedigree goat David.

V

DEAR CHARLES,--I am learning to dance the minuet. I say "the"

instead of "a" because I am sure mine is a very particular kind of

one. You start off with three slides to the left, then three to the

right, and then you stop and waggle the left leg. After that you bow

to your partner in acknowledgement of the interest she has taken in

it all, and that ends the first figure. There are lots more, but one

figure at a time is my motto. At present I slide well, but I am a

moderate waggler.

_Why_ am I doing this, you ask. My dear Charles, you never know when

a little thing like a minuet will turn out useful. The time may well

come when you will say to yourself, "Ah, if only I had seized the

opportunity of learning that when I was young, how ... etc." There

were once two men who were cast ashore on a desert island. One of

them had an axe, and a bag of nails, and a goat, and a box of

matches, and a barrel of gunpowder, and a keg of biscuits, and a

tarpaulin and some fish-hooks. The other could only dance the

minuet. Years rolled by; and one day a ship put in at that island

for water. As a matter of fact, there was no water there, but they

found two skeletons. Which shows that in certain circumstances

proficiency in the minuet is as valuable as an axe, and a bag of

nails, and a goat and a box of matches, and all the other things that

I mentioned just now. So I am learning in case.

My niece, aged twenty months (do I bore you?), has made her first

joke: let it be put on record and handed down to those that come

after. She walked into the study, where her father was reading and

her mother writing. They agreed not to take any notice of her, in

order to see what would happen. She marched up to her father,

stroked his face, and said, "Hallo, daddy!" No answer. She gazed

round; and then went over to the writing-desk. "Hallo, mummy!" Dead

silence. She stood for a moment looking rather puzzled. At last she

went back to her father, bent down and patted his slippers and said,

"Hallo, boots!" Then she walked quite happily out of the room.

However, we won't bother about her, because I have something much

more exciting to tell you. M'Gubbin has signed on for the something

Rovers for next season! I saw it in the paper; it had a little

paragraph all to itself. This is splendid news--I haven't been so

happy about anything for a long time. Whaur's your Wully Gaukrodger

now? Let us arrange a Pentathlon for them. I'll back M'G., and you

can hold the towel for Gauk. My man would win at football of course,

and yours at cricket, but the other three events would be exciting.

Chess, golf and the minuet, I think. I can see M'Gubbin

sliding--_one_, two, three, _one_, two three--there, now he's

waggling his left leg. Charles, you're a goner--hand over the stakes.

Look here, I smoke too much, at least I have been lately. Let's give

it up, Charles. I'll give it up altogether for a week if you will.

Did you know that you can allay the craving for tobacco by the

judicious use of bull's-eyes? ("Allay" is the word.) You carry a

bag of bull's-eyes with you--I swear this is true, I saw it in the

press--and whenever you feel a desire to smoke you just pop a

bull's-eye in your mouth. In a little while, they say, your taste

for tobacco--and I imagine for everything else--is quite gone. This

ought to be more widely known, and then your host would say, "Try one

of these bull's-eyes, won't you? I import them direct," and you

would reply, "Thanks very much, but I would rather have one of my

own, if I may." "Have a bull's-eye, if you like," your partner would

say at a dance. Of course, too, they would have special bull's-eye

compartments in trains; that would be jolly. But it would ruin the

stage. The hero who always lights a cigarette before giving off his

best epigram--I don't know what he'd do. You see he couldn't ...

well, he'd have to wait such a time.

Why are they called bull's-eyes? I don't believe I've ever seen a

bull's-eye really close. If you look a bull in the eye he doesn't go

for you. Which eye? He might be a left-handed bull; you'd look at

the wrong eye; then where would you be?

The world is too much with me, Charles, but all the same I've just

ordered a flannel suit which will make Castle Bumpbrook stare. Sort

of purplish; and it makes up very smart, and they can do me two pairs

of trousers in it, whatever that means. I should have thought they

could have done me as many pairs as I liked to ask for, but it seems

not. They only print a limited edition, and then destroy the

original plates, so that nobody else can walk about looking like me.

I asked the man if he thought it would play croquet well, and he

said, yes. By the way, I have learnt some more about croquet since I

wrote last. First, then, you can go round in one, if you're

frightfully good. I should like to go round in one; I suppose that

would be the record? Secondly, if you're wired from all the balls,

"so that you can't get a clear shot at every part of any one of

them," you go into baulk, and have another turn. This must happen

pretty often, because you could never have a clear shot at the back

of a ball, unless you went right round the world the other way, and

that would be too risky, besides wasting so much time. No, I can see

there's a lot to learn in the game, but patience, Charles, patience.

I shall go round in one yet.

VI

DEAR CHARLES,--Are you coming up to town this month? If you do we

will make a journey into Shepherd's Bush together, and see the

Exhibition.

I am afraid I have been doing Shepherd's Bush an injustice all these

years. John and I once arranged a system of seven hells, in which we

put all the men we hated. Nobody known personally to either of us

was eligible (so your name never came up, dear Charles), which meant

that they had to be filled with people in the public eye. The

seventh division contained two only: one a socialist, who is thought

a good deal of--by himself, I mean; the other a novelist who only

writes about superior people who drop their "g's." The punishment

for this class was simple; perpetual life in an open boat on a choppy

sea, smoking Virginian cigarettes--John's idea chiefly, he being a

bad sailor. The doom decreed for the unfortunates in the fifth

class--now I am coming to the point of this reminiscence--was more

subtle: they had to live at Shepherd's Bush, and go to a musical

comedy every afternoon.

There were four men in the fifth class. Three of them we need not

bother about, but the latest arrival was a certain cleric who

advertised a good deal. One day we met somebody who knew him well.

We broke the sad news to him gently, and he was much distressed about

it. He asked if there was any hope. We replied that if his friend

turned over a new leaf, and kept his name out of the papers for a

bit, he might in time be promoted into the fourth division--where,

every day, you watched Sussex play Essex at Leyton and had mutton

sandwiches for lunch. He was so glad to hear this that he made us

promise to let him know when any such step was meditated.

Accordingly, after a month of perfect quiet on the part of the

reverend gentleman we sent his friend a telegram: "Bernard left

Shepherd's Bush by the nine o'clock steamer this morning."

And now it looks as if the Bush were much more of a place than we

thought.

Every week or so I have an inspiration; and I had one yesterday, when

the thought struck me suddenly that it would be a good idea to buy

some postcards. You get them at the post office--six stout ones for

ninepence. Oh no, that can't be right--nine stout ones for sixpence.

I shouldn't think a postcard would ever get too stout--not

unpleasantly so, I mean; you hardly ever see an obese postcard. I

don't believe I have used one of any dimensions for ten years; yet

they are such handy things when you want to say "Right O" or don't

quite know whether you are "very truly" or "sincerely." The postcard

touch is hereditary. Some families have it, ours hasn't. But now it

is going to begin. Tomorrow I buy as many stout ones for sixpence as

they will give me.

Talking of buying croquet mallets and things--I went into a little

tobacconist's a little while ago (What for? Guess), and while I was

there a man came in and ordered a pipe, two ounces of bird's-eye, and

a box of matches. I wanted to tell him that you really required a

rubber pouch as well, and a little silver thing for pressing down the

tobacco. It must want some nerve to start straight off like that,

especially at his age--forty or so. I am about to play golf

seriously, and I shall certainly get my clubs at different shops--a

driver at the Stores, a putter in Piccadilly, a niblick (what's a

niblick? Anyhow, I shall have several of them, because of the

name)--and several niblicks in Fleet Street. It would be too absurd

to buy a dozen assorted clubs, one ball, a jersey and a little red

flag all at the same place.

Yes, I should love to come down and play cricket for Castle

Bumpbrook, and many thanks for asking me. I don't make runs

nowadays, Charles, but if you feel that the mere presence of a

gentleman from Lunnon would inspire and, as it were, give tone to the

side, then I am at your service. You do say "Lunnon" in the country,

don't you, when you mean London? And you say "bain't" too. How

jolly! "I bain't a bowler, zur"--and you pronounce the "b-o-w" as if

it were a curtsey and not a cravat. "Put Oi----" It's no good. I

can't keep it up. Put me in last and I'll make 3 not out, and that

will bring me top of the averages. (If you divide 3 by 0 you get an

awful lot, you know.) You have an average bat, I suppose? I like

them rather light--or I would take the money, whichever would be more

convenient.

I have just written myself a letter, pleasantly standoffish, but not

haughty. The reason is that I have my doubts about the post office,

so I am giving them a test. My address, as you have discovered, is

an awkward one. There are nine distinct ways of getting it wrong,

and most people try two or three of them. But the letters do get

here eventually, after (I expect) a good deal of sickness on the part

of the postman. What I am beginning to wonder now is whether a

letter with the _right_ address would arrive; I fancy that the chief

of the detective department would suspect a trap, and send it

somewhere else; and, as I am certain that I have never received one

or two letters which I ought to have had, I am writing to myself to

see.

It is a great art, that of writing nicely to yourself; to say enough,

yet not too much. When John was getting engaged, he wrote to himself

every day. Before he started doing this he used to spend hours

sitting and wondering whether the postman had been. The few letters

he had had from her came by the eight-thirty post. At eight-fifteen

he began to look out; nothing happened. An awful quarter of an hour

followed. Eight-thirty--no postman's knock; never mind, perhaps he's

late. Eight-thirty-five--well, it _is_ rather a busy time; besides

he may have fallen down. Eight-forty--one ray of light left; he did

come once, you remember, at eight-forty-two.

Eight-forty-five--despair. A half-an-hour's agony, you observe,

Charles. Then he thought of writing to himself in time for that

delivery. The result was that he remained quite calm, knowing that

the postman was bound to come. "Ah, there he is. Will there be a

letter from her? Yes--no." You see? Your heart in your mouth for

five seconds only.

I never saw any of these letters. But I should say that at the

beginning they were sympathetic--"Buck up, it's all right"--or

hopeful--"Never mind, she'll write to-morrow"; later on they would

become cynical--"Done in the eye again. What on earth do you

expect?"; and, finally, I expect, insulting--"You silly ass; chuck

it." ... Then, of course, she wrote.

Good-bye. Don't forget I am going to play for you. Would it be side

to wear flannels? White boots would be a bit lofty, anyhow. Then I

shall wear one brown pad on the right leg.

VII

DEAR CHARLES,--Many thanks for your letter. Don't side just because

you get up at six o'clock, and feed the cow, or shave the goat, or

whatever it is. Other people get up early too. For the last few

weeks I have sprung out of bed at seven-thirty. (I always "spring"

out--it is so much more classy.) But I doubt if I can keep it up.

The truth is that I have just made an unhappy discovery. I was under

the impression that my man's name was Turley; I should say my third

of a man, because I share with him two others, but anyhow I thought

his whole name was Turley. So I used to write nice little notes,

beginning, "If you're waking, call me, Turley," and leave them about

for him. He invariably woke at seven and read them--and came and

called me, mother dear. Of course I had to get up. Well, I have now

heard that his name is really Holland, which makes all the

difference. It would be absurd to write him any more notes of that

kind. My one satisfaction is that I can claim to own a third of

Holland, which is about 4000 square miles. Multiply that by 640 and

you get it in acres. Altogether the landowner.

Moreover, Charles, my lad, you are not the one person who knows

things about animals. You may be on terms of familiarity with the

cow and the goat, but these are not the only beasts. What

acquaintance, for example, have you with reptiles? The common

newt--do you know anything about _him_? No. Well, then, now I'll

tell you.

When I was seven and John was eight, we went to a naturalist's in

Hampstead to inquire the price of newts. They were threepence each,

not being quite in season. We bought sixpennyworth; the man put them

into a paper bag for us, and we took them up on the Heath to give

them a gallop. When we opened the bag we found _three_ newts inside.

It seemed impossible that the thing could have happened naturally, so

we went back to the shop to explain to the man that he had made a

mistake. However, he hadn't; he had merely given us one newt

discount. (Remember that when next you're buying them.) Well, we

returned to the Heath, and they showed their paces. Now the newt is

an amphibious animal (Greek); he is as much at ease in the bathroom

as on the mat. So when we got them home we arranged to try them in

our bath.

This is where you cry. For a time all went well. They dived, swam

(back and front), trod water, returned to life when apparently

drowned, and so forth. Then John pulled up the waste-pipe. He says

now that he did it inadvertently, but I fancy that he wanted to see

what would happen. What did happen was that they got into the

whirlpool and disappeared. We turned on both the hot and cold taps

to see if they would come back, but they didn't. Apparently you

don't. We rushed into the garden to see if they would return by the

drain-pipe with the rainwater, but not they. Only the paper bag was

left to us ... and (to this day I cannot recall it without a tear) it

was John who popped it.

Charles, we never saw those newts again. Crusoe, Cleaver and

Robinson were their names. Robinson and Crusoe they were to have

been; and when the third came, and seemed to take a fancy to

Robinson, we called him Cleaver. Where are they now? In the mighty

Thames somewhere, I suppose. So, Charles, if ever you are near the

river, keep a friendly eye open for them, will you? They may be a

little wild now, but they were good newts in their day.

We had a _Buforium_ too in our time, you must know. I have just made

that word up, and it means a place where you keep toads. In our case

it was the sink. The toad, as you may not have realised, has no

vomerine or maxillary teeth, but he _has_ got a distinct tympanum.

However, what I really wanted to say was that the toad has a pyriform

tongue of incredible length, by means of which he catches his

prey--thus differing from the frog, which leaps at 'em. We used to

station a toad opposite one of the walls of the sink--of the

_Buforium_--and then run his breakfast down the side. Sometimes it

would be a very long centipede, and then you could have one toad for

each end; or a---- What brutes little boys are; I'm not going to

tell you any more about toads. (Except to say that his omosternum is

generally missing. That must be very annoying.)

Did I ever talk to you about hedgehogs? We kept no end of them, but

Peter was the only one who stayed. He used to live in the scullery,

so as to see that no black-beetles got about. One night the cook

woke up suddenly and remembered that she had left the scullery tap

running. So she jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, not even

stopping to put on slippers....

She was a very heavy woman.... No, Peter wasn't hurt much; but she

refused to have him in the kitchen again.

This is a very zoological letter, but I just wanted to show you that

you weren't the only one. Time fails me to tell you of a mole which

we put in the geranium-bed, of a certain kind of caterpillar from

which we caught nettlerash, of a particularly handsome triton which

we kept in a tank with a crab, giving them fresh and salt water on

alternative days, so that there should be no quarrelling. It is

enough if I have made it clear that one does not need to have Castle

Bumpbrook on one's notepaper in order to commune with nature.

I want two wedding presents--I don't mean for myself. What do you

suggest? I bar anything for the table. Newly married couples might

do nothing but eat to judge from the things they get given them. At

present I hesitate between the useful--as, for instance, twenty

thousand cubic feet of gas--and the purely ornamental--say, an

antimacassar. "Mr and Mrs Samuel Jones--a towel-horse": you never

see that, do you? And yet you could pay anything for a pure-bred

one, and they are very useful. The bride always wears "valuable old

Honiton lace, the gift of her aunt." Otherwise it's not legal.

Kitty never had an aunt, had she? Then you aren't properly married,

Charles. I'm sorry.

VIII

DEAR CHARLES,--A thing has just happened to me, which really only

happens to people in jokes. You would not believe it did I not lay

my hand on my heart--(the heart isn't on the left side, as you

thought, by the way. It's bang in the middle, only the left auricle

does all the work. However)--on my heart, and swear that it is true.

I was in the silver department of Liberty's buying some spoons. Yes,

I fell back on spoons after all. (Never fall back on a spoon,

Charles, if you can help it.) It was a hot day and the business of

selection was so exhausting that I took off my hat and gloves, and

laid them on a chair beside me. When it was all over the man went

off to make out the bill. I wandered round the place, looking at all

the other things which I wished I had bought instead. Suddenly a

voice at my side said:

"Can you tell me if this is where you get ladies' jerseys for golf?"

(I told you you had to get a jersey for golf.)

I said: "Oh, do you think that is a good thing? I rather thought of

spoons myself.... I mean, for a wedding present one does want

something which ... Oh, I beg your pardon.... Yes, I am Mr Liberty.

No liberty at all, madam, I assure you.... This is the silver

department, you know.... Yes, all that white shiny stuff.... Well,

I daresay we could do you one, if you wouldn't mind having the lion

worked on it.... No, we don't charge for the lion.... Or what about

something quite simple in pewter.... Oh, I see.... The art muslin

department would be the nearest thing we have ... a freer swing,

certainly.... Good-morning."

Well, no, I didn't say that exactly. Having my hand on the left side

of my heart it would be impossible to pretend that I did. With the

best intentions in the world, how easy it is, Lucy, to slip from the

rocky path of truth into the crevasse of make-believe. (Maxim from

"The Fairchild Family.") But really and really, Charles, she did take

me for the shopwalker in the silver department, and she did ask for

ladies' golf jerseys. What I actually said was: "I'm very sorry, but

I'm afraid I'm only a customer." And she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry."

And then I put on my hat to show that I had one, and took it off

again to show that I knew my manners, and she went off to the clock

counter, and said she was sorry to trouble the man behind it, but

could he tell her where she went for ladies' jerseys for golf, and he

said he was very sorry, they didn't sell them, but would she like

some clocks on her stockings instead. Altogether there was a good

deal of sorrow going about.

But not on my part--never. In common tweeds, to be mistaken for one

of those splendid frock-coated gentleman, and admitted into a lady's

confidence on a question of jerseys, there was glory for you. I

doubt now if I ought to have gone down to Castle Bumpbrook. Anyhow,

I should have insisted on all the gate.

What was the gate? I distinctly saw three small boys hiding behind a

cow. I suppose they paid all right? Charles, I did enjoy it

awfully, as I think I have told you several times. It was good of

you to send me in first with the postman, and as a post-man I am sure

I should love him very much, but he is too fast for me on the

cricket-field. There wasn't a run there, you know--a simple shot

straight to cover. I expect he thought it was an express delivery or

late fee stroke, with "Immediate" in the top left-hand corner; or

perhaps the brown pad made him think I was a telegram. If I ever go

in first with him again I shall register myself.

I gather that the vicar _has_ to bowl at one end all the time, hasn't

he? In lieu of tithes or something. Otherwise you get the

Ecclesiastical Commissioners down on you. He varies his pitch

cleverly, I admit. His firstly would take any batsman by surprise; I

can't think why it only bounces once--finger-spin, I suppose. Then,

immediately afterwards, you get his secondly, a high full pitch which

would almost be a wide in a layman. Yet all the time you feel that

he is only leading up to his sixthly and lastly, my brethren, which

is one of the subtlest half-volleys I have ever seen.

Charles, I love your garden. It was jolly to see the white flower of

Mrs Sinkins' blameless life again. I knew Mrs Sinkins as a bulb--I

mean as a boy, and have always regarded her with affection. I

suppose I shall have to wait for Dorothy Perkins. She is hardly out

yet. My love is like a---- Oh, but Dorothy is pink. Anyhow, she

sweetly smiles in June, and it's just on June, so I'm blowed if I

don't come down to see her next month, whether you ask me or not.

Better send me an invitation for form's sake.

And teach me about flowers, will you? (And I will tell you about

motor omnibuses.) Why do they all end in "kins"? It can't be a

coincidence that the only two which I know to talk to should do this.

Funnily enough, motor omnibuses all end in Putney, which shows that

this is a very small world after all, and we needs must love the

highest when we see it. So near and yet so far. Doesn't it annoy

you when you meet a person in London whom you last saw in Uganda, and

he fatuously observes that the world is a very small place? It would

have been a much smaller place, _prima facie_, if you had last seen

him at Leamington.

To return to Dorothy; we have flowers in London, too. What about the

Temple Show? I saw a man there with a kodak; I suppose he wanted to

snap the roses as they were growing. That's the sort of weather we

are on the Embankment! Oh, but the fruit there! I wish I were a

prize tomato; what a complexion!