He must marry Maisie Ellerton, and the two of them must bring lots of capable, clear-eyed Kynnersleys into the world.

I long to be their ghostly godfather.
Then there's Eleanor Faversham--but if I begin to draw up a programme I shall lose that spontaneity of effort which, I take it, is one of the chief charms of dealing unto oneself a happy lot and portion.

No; my soul abhors tabulation.

It would make even six months' life as jocular as Bradshaw's Railway Guide or the dietary of a prison.

I prefer to look on what is before me as a high adventure, and with that prospect in view I propose to jot down my experiences from time to time, so that when I am wandering, a pale shade by Acheron, young Dale Kynnersley may have not only documentary evidence wherewith to convince my friends and relations that my latter actions were not those of a lunatic, but also, at the same time, an up-to-date version of Jeremy Taylor's edifying though humour-lacking treatise on the act of dying, which I am sorely tempted to label "The Rule and Example of Eumoiriety." I shall resist the temptation, however.