“I am undoubtedly bald,” I observed. “You’re certainly bald,” said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor. I took my hat and remarked: “A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch.” “You said you would,” cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly. I poised the letter in my hand, reading again “Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman.” Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently. “Who knows,” said I, “that I may not be a Romance--a Vanished Dream--a Green Memory--an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch.” “Do you mean that you used to know Miss Bannerman?” asked Mrs. Hilary in her pleasant prosaic way. It was a sin seventeen years old; it would hardly count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. “You may tell her when I’m gone,” said I to Miss Phyllis. Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary’s ear. “Another?” cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast. “It was the very first,” said I, defending myself. Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my hat. “Tell her,” said I, “that I remembered her very well.” “I shall do no such thing,” said Mrs. Hilary. “And tell her,” I continued, “that I am still handsome.” “I shan’t say a word about you,” said Mrs. Hilary. “Ah, well, that will be better still,” said I. “She’ll have forgotten your very name,” remarked Mrs. Hilary. I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I turned round and observed: “I dare say her hair’s just as soft as ever. Still--I’ll lunch some other day.” A VERY FINE DAY “I see nothing whatever to laugh at,” said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished. “I did not ask you to laugh,” I observed mildly. “I mentioned it merely as a typical case.” “It’s not typical,” she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added: “Poor boy! I’m not surprised.” “I’m not surprised either,” I remarked. “It is, however, extremely deplorable.” “It’s your own fault. Why did you introduce him?” “A book,” I observed, “might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would--?” By the way, I might as well state what he--that is, my young cousin George--had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible. Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers. “I’ve got to go up tomorrow,” he remarked. “Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town,” said I. “D----d hole,” observed George. I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by. A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady. “George, George!” I cried. “There she is--Look!”