“I hadn’t looked at it in that manner,” I told Aunt Augusta, “and yet it seems a frightful shame that this thing should all go for nothing.” “Couldn’t you shorten it by about three-quarters?” she suggested; but I felt, somehow, that this was out of the question. “It is a case of all or none, as we say,” I replied, “and I am afraid it had better be a case of none. I should like to have delivered the speech, and I may tell you that what is called the ‘per-oration’ was the best part of it. I worked up to a sort of a pitch in it—a pitch of true feeling. In fact, it was poetry; and if I had done it properly, they’d have forgotten all about their trains and even felt it was worth missing them. But all is now over. I expect you are right, though, of course, it is impossible to be certain.” With these words, I made a quick movement and dramatically cast the manuscript of the speech upon the fire. I thought that Aunt Augusta, womanlike, would have leapt forward, smitten with remorse before the spectacle, and dashed at the grate and very likely burned herself in unavailing efforts to rescue my words. But she made no such effort, and expressed no remorse whatever. I could not help showing a little irritation. “Hang it all,” I said, “you might have asked to hear the peroration!” She put her hand on my arm. “I’m an artist too,” she said, in her quiet voice, “but I’m old, compared to you, and my sense of humour has been sharpened through a good many sorrows as well as joys. My dearest boy, it wasn’t any good—honestly—honestly. You can do a million times better than that. Just say what comes into your head, and you’ll cover yourself with glory.” Of course the female sex is famous for a sort of intuition, and they often get clever and correct ideas without working for them like we men have to do. They have flashes of sense, as it were, and though sometimes the flashes are right bang off, to use a slang phrase, still, there is no doubt that often the things they utter on the spur of the moment will be found to hit the right nail on the head. Aunt Augusta had sense, though the worlds of the City and of sport were, naturally, sealed books to her. I allowed her hand to stay on my arm, which I did not always do, and granted that I honestly believed she was very likely right. “And if you’ve had a good many sorrows in your time, Aunt Augusta, I’m very sorry, and don’t wish to add to them,” I said. “In fact, really, in cold blood, looking back at my idea of a speech, with stage deportment, and elocution, and so on—and pathos at the end, it may have been infernal cheek to think of such a thing from a junior clerk to a crowd of grown-up men. They might have given me ‘the bird,’ which is theatrical parlance for hissing; they might have got right-down annoyed, and thought I was making game of them; they might even have taken away the bat!”