It's nearly the end of October.

Life is thoroughly pleasant, although unfortunately there are a great number of fools about.

One must apply oneself to something or other--God knows what.
Everything is really very jolly--except getting up in the morning and wearing a tail coat.") "I say, Bonamy, what about Beethoven ?" ("Bonamy is an amazing fellow.

He knows practically everything--not more about English literature than I do--but then he's read all those Frenchmen.") "I rather suspect you're talking rot, Bonamy.

In spite of what you say, poor old Tennyson...." ("The truth is one ought to have been taught French.