He was manicuring himself when I called, and I was asked whether I would
see him now, or wait two hours till he had finished. I said I would see
him now; so I was shown into his dressing-room.
"I am sorry," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "but if you will call at such an
early hour----" It was twelve o'clock, but I apologised. "And what can I
do for you?" asked my host.
"My paper," I said, "would like to have your views on the War."
"Well, if you ask me what I think of the War," said Mr. FitzJenkins,
"it's a noosance--an unmitigated noosance. No one talks anything but War
nowadays--and the papers contain nothing but War news. Even the Men's
Dress Columns have disappeared. I can tell you it has caused the
greatest inconvenience to me personally. You may wonder why I am
manicuring myself. I'll tell you why. My manicurist--the only man in
London who knew how to manicure--turned out to be a beastly German or
Austrian or something, and has gone off to his beastly War. I even
offered to double the man's fees--at which the fellow, instead of being
grateful, was grossly impertinent. If he hadn't been such a great
hulking brute I'd have knocked him down.... So I have to do the business
myself. Couldn't trust it to anyone else.... And then look here. You see
this little pot of pink paste, which has to be used to give the nails
the necessary blush? Do you know that the price of that has doubled
since the War?"