“The idiotic presents that people give you!” he continued. “I said I’d like Tennyson’s poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did want. I didn’t want anything really; that was the only thing I could think of that I wasn’t dead sure I didn’t want. Well, they clubbed together, four of them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, illustrated with coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. If you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag capable of holding about a pound, embroidered with flowers, life-size. The only way one could use it would be to put a strap to it and wear it as a satchel. Would you believe it, I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with forget-me-nots and butterflies in coloured silk; I’m not joking. And they ask me why I never wear it. I’ll bring it down to the Club one of these nights and wake the place up a bit: it needs it.” We had arrived by this at the steps of the ‘Devonshire.’ “And I’m just as bad,” he went on, “when I give presents. I never give them what they want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use to anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be certain chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman could wear. ‘Oh! that is nice of you,’ she says; ‘now that is just the very thing I wanted. I will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in again.’ I give the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing watch-chains. When watch-chains are all the rage I give them ear-rings, and they thank me, and suggest my taking them to a fancy-dress ball, that being their only chance to wear the confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with black backs, to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman as suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save their old stock to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And why does it always take half-a-dozen people to serve you with a pair of gloves, I’d like to know? Only last week Jane asked me to get her some gloves for that last Mansion House affair. I was feeling amiable, and I thought I would do the thing handsomely. I hate going into a draper’s shop; everybody stares at a man as if he were forcing his way into the ladies’ department of a Turkish bath. One of those marionette sort of men came up to me and said it was a fine morning. What the devil did I want to talk about the morning to him for? I said I wanted some gloves. I described them to the best of my recollection. I said, ‘I want them four buttons, but they are not to be button-gloves; the buttons are in the middle and they reach up to the elbow, if you know what I mean.’ He bowed, and said he understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned sight more than I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and three pair fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be swedes. He corrected me. He said I meant ‘Suede.’ I dare say he was right, but the interruption put me off, and I had to begin over again.