Good Friday morning, an hour's cycling before breakfast in Regent's Park, by way of pumping some air into his lungs, then, ten hours at least of high Parnassian leisure, of dalliance in Academic shades; he saw himself wooing some reluctant classic, or, far more likely, flirting with his own capricious and bewildering muse.

(In a world of prose it is only by such divine snatches that poets are made) Friday evening, dinner at his club, the Junior Journalists'.

Saturday morning, recovery from dinner at the Junior Journalists'.

Saturday afternoon, to Hampstead or the Hippodrome with Flossie Walker, the little clerk, who lived in his boarding-house and never had any fun to speak of.

Saturday night, supper with--well, with Miss Poppy Grace of the Jubilee Variety Theatre.