But it would be impossible to mention all the members of the D.W.T. by name.  I have been led on to speaking about the club by the mention of that Mr. Smith (or whatever his name was) who refused to be made a justice of the peace.  If Mr. Smith cared to put up as an honorary member, I have no doubt that he would be elected; for though it is against the Money God that the chief battle is waged, yet the spirit of refusal is the same.  “Blessed are they who know how to refuse,” runs the club’s motto, “for they will have a chance to be clean.”

On Going into a House

It is nineteen years since I lived in a house; nineteen years since I went upstairs to bed and came downstairs to breakfast.  Of course I have done these things in other people’s houses from time to time, but what we do in other people’s houses does not count.  We are holiday-making then.  We play cricket and golf and croquet, and run up and down stairs, and amuse ourselves in a hundred difierent ways, but all this is no fixed part of our life.  Now, however, for the first time for nineteen years, I am actually living in a house.  I have (imagine my excitement) a staircase of my own.

Flats may be convenient (I thought so myself when I lived in one some days ago), but they have their disadvantages.  One of the disadvantages is that you are never in complete possession of the flat.  You may think that the drawing-room floor (to take a case) is your very own, but it isn’t; you share it with a man below who uses it as a ceiling.  If you want to dance a step-dance, you have to consider his plaster.  I was always ready enough to accommodate myself in this matter to his prejudices, but I could not put up with his old-fashioned ideas about bathroom ceilings.  It is very cramping to one’s style in the bath to reflect that the slightest splash may call attention to itself on the ceiling of the gentleman below.  This is to share a bathroom with a stranger—­an intolerable position for a proud man.  To-day I have a bathroom of my own for the first time in my life.

I can see already that living in a house is going to be extraordinarily healthy both for mind and body.  At present I go upstairs to my bedroom (and downstairs again) about once in every half-hour; not simply from pride of ownership, to make sure that the bedroom is still there, and that the staircase is continuing to perform its functions, but in order to fetch something, a letter or a key, which as likely as not I have forgotten about again as soon as I have climbed to the top of the house.  No such exercise as this was possible in a flat, and even after two or three days I feel the better for it.  But obviously I cannot go on like this, if I am to have leisure for anything else.  With practice I shall so train my mind that, when I leave my bedroom in the morning, I leave it with everything that I can possibly require until nightfall.  This, I imagine, will not happen for some years yet; meanwhile physical training has precedence.