powers come into play, and
obviously this only applies to men: no lady ever grows old for those
who are really fond of her; one always sees her as one likes best to
think of her.

I have already divulged one family secret, so I will reveal another.
Some few years ago my three eldest brothers were dining together. Each
of them professed deep concern at the palpable signs of physical decay
which he detected in his brethren, whilst congratulating himself on
remaining untouched by advancing years. The dispute became acrimonious
to a degree; the grossest personalities were freely bandied about. At
length it was decided to put the matter to a practical test, and it was
agreed (I tell this in the strictest confidence) that the three
brothers should run a hundred yards race in the street then and there.
Accordingly, a nephew of mine paced one hundred yards in Montagu
Street, Portman Square, and stood immovable as winning-post. The
Chairman of the British South African Chartered Company, the Chairman
of the Great Eastern Railway Company, and the Secretary of State for
India took up their positions in the street and started. The Chairman
of the Great Eastern romped home. We are all of us creatures of our
environment, and we may become unconsciously coloured by that
environment; as the Great Eastern Railway has always adopted a go-ahead
policy, it is possible that some particle of the momentum which would
naturally result from this may have been subconsciously absorbed by the
Chairman, thus giving him an unfair advantage over his brothers. It is
unusual for a Duke, a Chairman of an important Railway Company, and a
Secretary of State to run races in a London street at ten o'clock at
night, especially when the three of them were long past their sixtieth
year, but I feel certain that my confidence about this little episode
will be respected.

I fear that this habit of running races late in life may be a family
failing. During my father's second tenure of office as Lord-Lieutenant
of Ireland, he was still an enthusiastic cricketer, and played
regularly in the Viceregal team in spite of his sixty-four years. The
Rev. Dr. Mahaffy, Professor of Ancient History at Trinity College,
Dublin, also played for the Viceregal Lodge in his capacity of Chaplain
to the Viceroy. Dr. Mahaffy, though a fine bowler, was the worst runner
I have ever seen. He waddled and paddled slowly over the ground like a
duck, with his feet turned outwards, exactly