“How sad! But sit on your pity and keep it snug. It’ll be needed for another, or woman has changed since my time. Don’t you know that every sanguine temperament in the shire is similarly bent? She’s at home the first Monday and the third Friday for the purpose of dispatching ’em. Does ’em in detachments. As Archie pathetically says, ‘To a peaceable and quiet mind the slaughter is distressing.’ And she’s going to be a sister to ’em all. Archie says he can’t sleep o’ nights for thinking of his poor relations.” “Don’t care,” said I doggedly; “she’s A 1.” “Rather liberal-minded too.” “The best women always are.” “Out of the mouths of babes! But this’ll gladden you. Middlesex man, stylish, dashing bat, fair change bowler, irreproachable field, is the dark horse. Were you only he, the deity might deign. But as you are merely a club-man with ambitions, be advised, and go and pack your brain in ice. For these cases the cold water cure has the highest testimonials. I’m speaking plain, because it pains me to see Joyous Imbecility riding for a fall. So long as it tumbles on its head there’s no harm done. Besides, the vanity that lives there sometimes gets a jog. But if it drops on top of its emotions, it’s been known to write a book, and that, my pilgrim, in the interests of humanity I feel it my duty to discountenance.” The General Nuisance having disposed of his piece of news, and having trampled on my feelings as far as considerations for his personal safety would permit, dismounted from the table in a way that involved the overturning of the hot-water dish on to my fox terrier, lying inoffensively on the hearthrug. Thereon he took his leave, professing deep solicitude for my deplorable condition, and departed to advertise it to the world. Poets always lead one to understand that the tender passion is an ecstatic, quick-breathing sort of thing. But in this present case of mine it simply made me morose and brooding, with a distinct tendency to put me off my ordinary game. Loss of appetite, a general lassitude, moodiness, abstraction, and an instability of purpose that would not let me do any one thing for more than five minutes at a time, were a few of my symptoms on this memorable morning. I loafed about the fields throughout the forenoon with no other companion than the Rubaiyat of Mr. Rudyard Kipling--I am sure I beg your pardon, I mean of course, the Rudyard Kipling of Mr. Omar Kháyyám--for once despising sporting literature, as I had discovered that sport itself was such a hollow, unsatisfying thing. On coming back to lunch I found that my sister Mary had returned from town. To my shame be it said I did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Mary is a most sympathetic person, but at the same time I was craving just now for a life of solitude. “Had a good time?” said I, immediately on the top of the fraternal ceremony.