And now I come to du Maurier’s last letter—­the best, as I am sure every right-minded person will admit.  I have kept it “pour la bonne bouche” (excuse my quoting French.  “Will me not of it,” as our neighbours say; there are unassailable precedents for such quoting, you know—­or ought to know).  The letter in question speaks of an event so momentous, that of all events it is the one most worthy to “be marked with a white, white stone”; and marked it was, if not with a stone, with satins and laces and a veil and white orange blossoms.

“Come and be introduced to the future Mrs. Kicky,” it said.  “She intends to celebrate her 21st birthday by a small dance.  There will be friends and pretty girls, ‘en veux tu, en viola.’  So rek-lect, olf’lah, Tuesday, at half-past seven.”

[Illustration]

The drawing shows how I was introduced, and how graciously I was received.

The letter needs a word of explanation, as it speaks of the “future Mrs.  ‘Kicky,’” and I have not yet mentioned that Kicky was but another name for du Maurier.  He got it at an early period of his life.  Just as any other baby less favoured by “Dame Fortune the witch” would have done, he gave himself his nickname.  He picked it up in Brussels when he was two years old, and under the care of Flemish servants.  They called him “Mannekin” (little man), and that he converted into “Kicky.”  I append one of the numerous varieties of his signature.

[Illustration:  Kick]

* * * * *

The Rag, Tag, and Bobtail had its day, and was shelved soon after we bid adieu to Bohemia; but the Kicky survived and flourished, and to-day not only his old chums, but those nearest and dearest to him, feel that they could not do without that particular appellation, associated as it is with a thousand and one happy memories.

And having arrived at that busiest of stations, the Matrimonial Junction, where the converted bachelor alights and changes for Better or for Worse, this chapter fitly comes to a close, meant as it was only to sketch some of the pleasant recollections that I, in common with so many of his friends, have of du Maurier’s bachelor days.

* * * * *