At another New Vagabond Dinner held at the Hotel Cecil, I remember being much amused by a young officer of the Königin Augusta Garde in Berlin, who was my guest. We had barely taken our seats when a deep sonorous voice roared forth: “Pray, silence for his Lordship the Bishop of ——.” “What a splendid voice that gentleman has,” exclaimed my German friend. “It is the toast-master,” I replied. “Toast?” he said, “but that is something to eat,” and before further explanation was possible the Bishop began to say grace, and everyone stood up. “Is this the King’s health?” asked the Baron, lifting his empty glass. “No, it’s grace,” I answered. “What is grace? It seems like a prayer.” “So it is, for your good behaviour,” I said. “Do you always have it?” “Yes, when we go out to dinner.” “And not at home?” “Oh no, we are only good like that and enjoy all that official ceremony at public dinners.” He was much tickled at the idea, and likewise relieved that the King’s health was not being toasted with empty glasses. Another public feast—the Dinner of the Society of Authors, in 1907—gave me still more food for mirth, besides intellectual and other enjoyment. My seat at the top table placed me between Mr. Bernard Shaw and Lord Dunsany. Exactly opposite was one of the fork tables that filled the room, and gave accommodation to about two hundred and fifty guests. In the corner facing us sat a nice little old lady. Somehow she reminded me of a cock-sparrow. She was _petite_ and fragile, with a perky little way, and her iron-grey hair was cut short. She looked at my neighbour on my left, consulted her programme, on which she read the name of Bernard Shaw, smiled with apparent delight, preened herself, and then the following conversation began: Old Lady (beaming across table): “I do love your writing.” Grey-bearded Gentleman (bowing): “Thank you very much.” Old Lady: “One sees the whole scene so vividly before one.” The grey-bearded gentleman bowed again. Old Lady (bending a little nearer): “They live and move. The characters almost dance before one.” Grey-bearded Gentleman (evidently rather pleased): “It’s good of you to say so. So few people read my sort of stuff as a rule.” Old Lady: “They are works of inspiration! By the by, how does inspiration come to you?” Grey-bearded Gentleman: “Well, it’s rather difficult to say. Anywhere, I think. An idea often flashes through my mind in a crowd, or even when someone is talking to me.” Old Lady (flapping her wings with delight, and evidently hoping _she_ was an inspiration): “Would you be so very kind as to sign my autograph book?” “With pleasure,” was the reply. And thereupon she produced a tiny little almanac from her pocket and a stylographic pen, and with a beaming smile remarked: “Under your name, please write _Man and Superman_!” He turned to her with a puzzled look, and then this is what ensued: “That is my favourite play.” “Is it?” “Don’t you love it the best?”