“Meanwhile” (I seem to hear you say) “what of the hairdresser who has the same name as yourself and plies his trade next door but one?  This story—­which so far is a poor enough thing—­was surely to have been about him.” (So I seem to hear you say.)

Patience!  It is about him, but it is also about the evils of procrastination.  In short, it is a kind of tract.

On the morning after my disappointing evening at the Alhambra, while moving some papers on my desk, I brought to light the bill for the powder and the essences.  “Good Heavens!” I murmured, “the poor fellow will be distracted not to have this;” and I took it in to him straightway.

I apologised for the delay.

“There is no hurry,” he replied.  “Accounts can wait; But I hope,” he added, taking an envelope from a drawer, “that this letter for you is equally unimportant.  It came, I’m afraid, four days ago, and I was always meaning to bring it in, but forgot.”

Unimportant!  It was merely an invitation from the most adorable woman in London to share her box at the Russian Ballet on the previous night, to see what she knew was my most desired performance, Carnaval, Les Sylphides and Pelroushka.

Either the hairdresser or I must move.

Or we must both take a course of memory training.  I believe there is some system on the market.

* * * * *

[Illustration “WE DON’T YET REALISE, MY BOY, ALL THE VAST CHANGES THIS WAR WILL MAKE.”

“NO, SIR.  BUT ISN’T IT RATHER A LOT OF BLITHER ABOUT BRIGHTER CRICKET?”]

* * * * *

    “Wanted, five unfurnished Rooms and bath (1 large for music
    studio).”—­Local Paper.

We are glad to note the spread of the healthful habit of singing in the bath.

* * * * *

THE PERILS OF REVIEWING.

A most unfortunate thing has happened to a friend of mine called ——­ to a friend of ——­ to a friend of ——.  Well, I suppose the truth will have to come out.  It happened to me.  Only don’t tell anybody.

I reviewed a book the other day.  It is not often I do this, because before one can review a book one has to, or is supposed to, read it, which wastes a good deal of time.  Even that isn’t an end of the trouble.  The article which follows is not really one’s own, for the wretched fellow who wrote the book is always trying to push his way in with his views on matrimony, or the Sussex downs, or whatever his ridiculous subject is.  He expects one to say, “Mr. Blank’s treatment of Hilda’s relations with her husband is masterly,” whereas what one wants to say is, “Putting Mr. Blank’s book on one side we may consider the larger question, whether ——­” and so consider it (alone) to the end of the column.