ing on us? I have mislaid my copy of
the book. Anyhow, fires and hearths will have to go. Let us make the
most of them while we may.

Personally, though I appreciate the radiance of a family fire, I give
preference to a fire that burns for myself alone. And dearest of all to
me is a fire that burns thus in the house of another. I find an
inalienable magic in my bedroom fire when I am staying with friends;
and it is at bedtime that the spell is strongest. 'Good night,' says my
host, shaking my hand warmly on the threshold; you've everything you
want?' 'Everything,' I assure him; 'good night.' 'Good night.' 'Good
night,' and I close my door, close my eyes, heave a long sigh, open my
eyes, set down the candle, draw the armchair close to the fire (my
fire), sink down, and am at peace, with nothing to mar my happiness
except the feeling that it is too good to be true.

At such moments I never see in my fire any likeness to a wild beast. It
roars me as gently as a sucking dove, and is as kind and cordial as my
host and hostess and the other people in the house. And yet I do not
have to say anything to it, I do not have to make myself agreeable to
it. It lavishes its warmth on me, asking nothing in return. For fifteen
mortal hours or so, with few and brief intervals, I have been making
myself agreeable, saying the right thing, asking the apt question,
exhibiting the proper shade of mild or acute surprise, smiling the
appropriate smile or laughing just so long and just so loud as the
occasion seemed to demand. If I were naturally a brilliant and copious
talker, I suppose that to stay in another's house would be no strain on
me. I should be able to impose myself on my host and hostess and their
guests without any effort, and at the end of the day retire quite
unfatigued, pleasantly flushed with the effect of my own magnetism.
Alas, there is no question of my imposing myself. I can repay
hospitality only by strict attention to the humble, arduous process of
making myself agreeable. When I go up to dress for dinner, I have
always a strong impulse to go to bed and sleep off my fatigue; and it
is only by exerting all my will-power that I can array myself for the
final labours: to wit, making myself agreeable to some man or woman for
a minute or two before dinner, to two women during dinner, to men after
dinner, then again to women in the drawing-room, and then once more to
men in the smoking-room. It is a dog's life. But one has to