“I don’t believe they do,” he snapped; “nobody enjoys it. We excite them for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud’s when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and a glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the cabman coming home.” I rose to go. “Then you won’t join that symposium?” said B—. “It would be an easy enough thing to knock off—‘Why Christmas should be abolished.’” “It sounds simple,” I answered. “But how do you propose to abolish it?” The lady editor of an “advanced” American magazine once set the discussion—“Should sex be abolished?” and eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the question. “Leave it to die of inanition,” said B—; “the first step is to arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be abolished.” “But why should it be abolished?” I asked. “Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; “don’t you want it abolished?” “I’m not sure that I do,” I replied. “Not sure,” he retorted; “you call yourself a journalist, and admit there is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!” “It has come over me of late years,” I replied. “It used not to be my failing, as you know.” He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his voice to a whisper. “Between ourselves,” he said, “I’m not so sure of everything myself as I used to be. Why is it?” “Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested. He said—“I started golf last year, and the first time I took the club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. ‘It seems an easy game,’ I said to the man who was teaching me. ‘Yes, most people find it easy at the beginning,’ he replied dryly. He was an old golfer himself; I thought he was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and for about three weeks I was immensely pleased with myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good player. Have you ever gone through that experience?” “Yes,” I replied; “I suppose that is the explanation. The game seems so easy at the beginning.”