Without having exhausted the subject of lunch in London (and I should like to say that it is now certain that I shall not have time to partake to-day), let us consider for a moment lunch in the country.  I do not mean lunch in the open air, for it is obvious that there is no meal so heavenly as lunch thus eaten, and in a short article like this I have no time in which to dwell upon the obvious.  I mean lunch at a country house.  Now, the most pleasant feature of lunch at a country house is this—­that you may sit next to whomsoever you please.  At dinner she may be entrusted to quite the wrong man; at breakfast you are faced with the problem of being neither too early for her nor yet too late for a seat beside her; at tea people have a habit of taking your chair at the moment when a simple act of courtesy has drawn you from it in search of bread and butter; but at lunch you follow her in and there you are—­fixed.

But there is a place, neither London nor the country, which brings out more than any other place all that is pleasant in lunch.  It was really the recent experience of this which set me writing about lunch.  Lunch in the train!  It should be the “second meal”—­about 1.30—­ because then you are really some distance from London and are hungry.  The panorama flashes by outside, nearer and nearer comes the beautiful West; you cross rivers and hurry by little villages, you pass slowly and reverently through strange old towns ... and, inside, the waiter leaves the potatoes next to you and slips away.

Well, it is his own risk.  Here goes. ...  What I say is that, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow.

The Friend of Man

When swords went out of fashion, walking-sticks, I suppose, came into fashion.  The present custom has its advantages.  Even in his busiest day the hero’s sword must have returned at times to its scabbard, and what would he do then with nothing in his right hand?  But our walking-sticks have no scabbards.  We grasp them always, ready at any moment to summon a cab, to point out a view, or to dig an enemy in the stomach.  Meanwhile we slash the air in defiance of the world.

My first stick was a malacca, silver at the collar and polished horn as to the handle.  For weeks it looked beseechingly at me from a shop window, until a lucky birthday tip sent me in after it.  We went back to school together that afternoon, and if anything can lighten the cloud which hangs over the last day of holidays, it is the glory of some such stick as mine.  Of course it was too beautiful to live long; yet its death became it.  I had left many a parental umbrella in the train unhonoured and unsung.  My malacca was mislaid in an hotel in Norway.  And even now when the blinds are drawn and we pull up our chairs closer round the wood fire, what time travellers tell to awestruck stay-at-homes tales of adventure in distant lands, even now if by a lucky chance Norway is mentioned, I tap the logs carelessly with the poker and drawl, “I suppose you didn’t happen to stay at Vossvangen?  I left a malacca cane there once.  Rather a good one too.”  So that there is an impression among my friends that there is hardly a town in Europe but has had its legacy from me.  And this I owe to my stick.