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Updated: May 31, 2025
And when I have made love to them one by one I'll get 'em all together and make love to the conglomerate mass! And then I'll rake up all the prettiest women in London and get 'em down there to humbug the men " "Lady Kynnersley will doubtless be there," said I; "and I don't quite see her " He broke in with a laugh: "Oh! the mater! I'll fix up her job all right. She'll just love it, won't she?
I was at breakfast on the morning after my arrival in London, when Dale Kynnersley rushed in and seized me violently by the hand. "By Jove, here you are at last!" I smoothed my crushed fingers. "You have such a vehement manner of proclaiming the obvious, my dear Dale." "Oh, rot!" he said. "Here, Rogers, give me some tea and I think I'll have some toast and marmalade." "Haven't you breakfasted?"
This by some is considered the quintessence of comedy. I foresee a revision of my sense of humour. This afternoon I met Lady Kynnersley again at the Ellertons'. I was talking to Maisie, who has grown no happier, when I saw her sailing across to me with questions hoisted in her eyes. Being particularly desirous not to report progress periodically to Lady Kynnersley, I made a desperate move.
The beastly papers say you were living with her in Algiers but you weren't, were you? It would be too horrible. In fact, you say you weren't. But, all the same, you have stolen her from me. It wasn't like you. . . . And this awful murder. My God! you don't know what it all means to me. It's breaking my heart. . . ." And Lady Kynnersley wrote with what object I scarcely know.
I shall resist the temptation, however. Dale Kynnersley such is the ignorance of the new generation would have no sense of the allusion. He would shake his head and say, "Dotty, poor old chap, dotty!" I can hear him. And if, in order to prepare him, I gave him a copy of the "Meditations," he would fling the book across the room and qualify Marcus Aurelius as a "rotter."
I don't think that rolling about in the Mediterranean on board the Marechal Bugeaud is good for little pains inside. When I began this autobiographical sketch of the last few weeks of my existence, I had conceived, as I have already said, the notion of making it chiefly a guide to conduct for my young disciple, Dale Kynnersley.
Lady Kynnersley is that type of British matron who has children in fits of absent-mindedness, and to whom their existence is a perpetual shock. Her main idea in marrying the late Sir Thomas Kynnersley was to associate herself with his political and philanthropic schemes.
An action of this kind on the part of a woman signifies a desire for solitude. I lit a cigarette and went into the garden. It was a sorry business. I saw as clearly as Lola that Lady Kynnersley desired to purchase Dale's immediate happiness at any price, and that the future might bring bitter repentance. But I offered no advice. I have finished playing at Deputy Providence.
Heaven knew, cried Lady Kynnersley, how many husbands she had already scattered along the track between Dublin and Yokohama. There was no doubt about it. Dale was hurtling down to everlasting bonfire. She looked to me to hold out the restraining hand. "You have already spoken to Dale on the subject?" I asked, mindful of the inharmonious socks and tie.
I can just keep my head, that is all, and note down what happens more or less day by day, so that when the doings of dwarfs and captains, and horse-tamers and youthful Members of Parliament concern me no more, Dale Kynnersley can have a bald but veracious statement of fact. And as I have before mentioned, he loves facts, just as a bear loves honey.
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