soup, and smooths his hair dubiously as though he thought it
might hit back. The thought-reading was rather a success; he announced
that the hostess was thinking about poetry, and she admitted that her
mind was dwelling on one of Austin's odes. Which was near enough. I
fancy she had been really wondering whether a scrag-end of mutton and
some cold plum-pudding would do for the kitchen dinner next day. As a
crowning dissipation, they all sat down to play progressive halma, with
milk-chocolate for prizes. I've been carefully brought up, and I don't
like to play games of skill for milk-chocolate, so I invented a headache
and retired from the scene. I had been preceded a few minutes earlier by
Miss Langshan-Smith, a rather formidable lady, who always got up at some
uncomfortable hour in the morning, and gave you the impression that she
had been in communication with most of the European Governments before
breakfast. There was a paper pinned on her door with a signed request
that she might be called particularly early on the morrow. Such an
opportunity does not come twice in a lifetime. I covered up everything
except the signature with another notice, to the effect that before these
words should meet the eye she would have ended a misspent life, was sorry
for the trouble she was giving, and would like a military funeral. A few
minutes later I violently exploded an air-filled paper bag on the
landing, and gave a stage moan that could have been heard in the cellars.
Then I pursued my original intention and went to bed. The noise those
people made in forcing open the good lady's door was positively
indecorous; she resisted gallantly, but I believe they searched her for
bullets for about a quarter of an hour, as if she had been an historic
battlefield.

I hate travelling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally do things that
one dislikes.

REGINALD'S RUBAIYAT

The other day (confided Reginald), when I was killing time in the
bathroom and making bad resolutions for the New Year, it occurred to me
that I would like to be a poet. The chief qualification, I understand,
is that you must be born. Well, I hunted up my birth certificate, and
found that I was all right on that score, and then I got to work on a
Hymn to the New Year, which struck me as having possibilities. It
suggested extremely unusual things to absolutely unlikely people, which I
believe is the art of first-class catering in any department. Q