I told him that on the occasion of my last visit to the Megatherium--Thackeray, I explained--a Royal Academician, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, reading desolate "The Hibbert Journal" in the smoking-room, embraced me as fondly as the austerity of the place permitted and related a non-drawing-room story which was current at my preparatory school--and that in the library I ran into an equally desolate, though even less familiar Archdeacon, who seized me, like the Ancient Mariner, and never let me go until he had impressed upon my mind the name and address of the only man in London who could cut clerical gaiters.

But the simple child of sugar would have his way.

There was but one Valhalla in London, and it was built by Decimus Burton.
After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half hour or so, and then Barbara and I took our leave.

As we were motoring home--we live some thirty miles out of London--we discussed the dinner party, according to the way of married folks, home-bound after a feast, and I mentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass.

Why should his face have been so haggard when he had everything to make him happy?
"He was thinking of Mr.Jornicroft's previous insulting behaviour." "How do you know ?" "He told me," said Barbara.
"I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive," said I.
"It strikes me, my dear," replied Barbara, taking my hand, "that you are an old ignoramus." And this from a woman who actively glories in not knowing how many "r's" there are in "harassed." She nestled up to me.