unexpected things. Didn't you always adore the man
who slew a lion in a pit on a snowy day? But about this unfortunate
innocence. Well, quite long ago, when I'd been quarrelling with more
people than usual, you among the number--it must have been in November, I
never quarrel with you too near Christmas--I had an idea that I'd like to
write a book. It was to be a book of personal reminiscences, and was to
leave out nothing."

"Reginald!"

"Exactly what the Duchess said when I mentioned it to her. I was
provoking and said nothing, and the next thing, of course, was that
everyone heard that I'd written the book and got it in the press. After
that, I might have been a gold-fish in a glass bowl for all the privacy I
got. People attacked me about it in the most unexpected places, and
implored or commanded me to leave out things that I'd forgotten had ever
happened. I sat behind Miriam Klopstock one night in the dress circle at
His Majesty's, and she began at once about the incident of the Chow dog
in the bathroom, which she insisted must be struck out. We had to argue
it in a disjointed fashion, because some of the people wanted to listen
to the play, and Miriam takes nines in voices. They had to stop her
playing in the 'Macaws' Hockey Club because you could hear what she
thought when her shins got mixed up in a scrimmage for half a mile on a
still day. They are called the Macaws because of their blue-and-yellow
costumes, but I understand there was nothing yellow about Miriam's
language. I agreed to make one alteration, as I pretended I had got it a
Spitz instead of a Chow, but beyond that I was firm. She megaphoned back
two minutes later, 'You promised you would never mention it; don't you
ever keep a promise?' When people had stopped glaring in our direction,
I replied that I'd as soon think of keeping white mice. I saw her
tearing little bits out of her programme for a minute or two, and then
she leaned back and snorted, 'You're not the boy I took you for,' as
though she were an eagle arriving at Olympus with the wrong Ganymede.
That was her last audible remark, but she went on tearing up her
programme and scattering the pieces around her, till one of her
neighbours asked with immense dignity whether she should send for a
wastepaper basket. I didn't stay for the last act."

"Then there is Mrs.--oh, I never can remember her name; she lives in a
street that the cabmen have never heard of, and is at home on