g umbrella," he says, with an air of
surprise, for he likes really to feel that he has made a mistake. "Ah,
well, it's no use going back now. He'd be gone. _And I've left him mine_!"

It is thus that we play hide-and-seek with our own conscience. It is not
enough not to be found out by others; we refuse to be found out by
ourselves. Quite impeccable people, people who ordinarily seem unspotted
from the world, are afflicted with umbrella morals. It was a well-known
preacher who was found dead in a first-class railway carriage with a
third-class ticket in his pocket.

And as for books, who has any morals where they are concerned? I remember
some years ago the library of a famous divine and literary critic, who had
died, being sold. It was a splendid library of rare books, chiefly
concerned with seventeenth-century writers, about whom he was a
distinguished authority. Multitudes of the books had the marks of libraries
all over the country. He had borrowed them and never found a convenient
opportunity of returning them. They clung to him like precedents to law.
Yet he was a holy man and preached admirable sermons, as I can bear
witness. And, if you press me on the point, I shall have to own that it
_is_ hard to part with a book you have come to love.

Indeed, the only sound rule about books is that adopted by the man who was
asked by a friend to lend him a certain volume. "I'm sorry," he said, "but
I can't." "Haven't you got it?" asked the other. "Yes, I've got it," he
said, "but I make it a rule never to lend books. You see, nobody ever
returns them. I know it is so from my own experience. Here, come with me."
And he led the way to his library. "There," said he, "four thousand
volumes. Every--one--of--'em--borrowed." No, never lend books. You can't
trust your dearest friend there. I know. Where is that _Gil Blas_ gone? Eh?
And that _Silvio Pellico_? And.... But why continue the list.... He knows.
HE KNOWS.

And hats. There are people who will exchange hats. Now that is
unpardonable. That goes outside that dim borderland of conscience where
honesty and dishonesty dissemble. No one can put a strange hat on without
being aware of the fact. Yet it is done. I once hung a silk hat up in the
smoking-room of the House of Commons. When I wanted it, it was gone. And
there was no silk hat left in its place. I had to go out bareheaded through
Palace Yard and Whitehall to buy another. I have often wondered who was the
gentleman who