of something and a Duke of somewhat—­all rolled into one.  Henry hooted at me for two days.  But finally he gave me some comfort.  “At least,” he said, “you are as well-known in London as your Duke’s mixture is in Emporia, and London is a bigger town!” Then it came Henry’s turn.  At our very grandest dinner they sat Henry between Lord Bryce and one of the most distinguished men of contemporary English letters.  Henry shone that night as he never shone before and when Henry turns on his talk he is a wizard.  Meredith Nicholson, who has heard Henry talk at a dinner, in a recent number of Scribner’s magazine, said of him:  “He’s the best talker I’ve ever heard.  It was delightful to listen to discourse so free, so graphic in its characterization, so coloured and flavoured with the very soil,” and that night at the English dinner, all of Henry’s cylinders were hitting and he took every grade without changing gears.  But my ears were eager for the man on Henry’s right.  He told some stories; my neck craned toward them.  Henry returned the Scotch stories with Kansas stories and held the table.

Then going home in the taxi Henry, recalling his dinner companion, said:  “Bill, who was that little man on my left, that man they called Barrie!”

It seemed impossible.  Yet those were Henry’s very words.

“Henry, Henry, have you never heard of ‘Peter Pan,’ nor ’The Little Minister,’ nor ’Sentimental’—­” his friend’s answer got no further.  Henry’s snort of shame almost stopped the taxi.

“No, Bill—­no—­not that.  Well, for Heaven’s sake! and I sat by him all evening braying like a jack.  Bill—­Bill, you won’t ever tell this in Wichita, will you?”

So it must remain forever a secret!

That was a joyful hour for me, but the next day, Henry had his laugh.  We came in from tea and found a card on the table in the snug little room near the elevator, which passes for a hotel office in London.  The card was from Lord Bryce inviting us to tea the next afternoon.  It fell to Henry’s lot to go out for the day in the country, and to me to lunch with Granville Barker.  So half-past four saw me rushing into the hotel from a taxi, which stood waiting outside, and throbbing up a two-pence every minute.  Then this dialogue occurred.

From me:  “Is Mr. Allen in his room?”

From the hall boy:  “He is, sir; shall I go for him, sir?”

From me:  “If you will, please, and tell him I’m in an ungodly hurry, and we have a taxi at the door chewing up money like a cornsheller!”

The hall boy had to find someone to go on watch.  Time was moving.  The tea was at five.  The Bryce apartment was a mile away, and the chug of that taxi by the door moved me impulsively toward the elevator.  But the elevator was still three steps away, when the manager of the hotel sauntered out from a side door, looked me over leisurely, and asked blandly: 

“You’ll be going to tea with Lord Bryce this afternoon—­I presume!”