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           AlotofImperialistladiesaskedmetoteatomeetschoolmastersfromNewZealandandeditorsfromVancouver,andthatwasthedismalestbusinessofall.HerewasI,thirty-sevenyearsold,soundinwindandlimb,withenoughmoneytohaveagoodtime,yawningmyheadoffallday.Ihadjustaboutsettledtoclearoutandgetbacktotheveld,forIwasthebestboredmanintheUnitedKingdom.

           ThatafternoonIhadbeenworryingmybrokersaboutinvestmentstogivemymindsomethingtoworkon,andonmywayhomeIturnedintomyclub—ratherapot-house,whichtookinColonialmembers.Ihadalongdrink,andreadtheeveningpapers.TheywerefulloftherowintheNearEast,andtherewasanarticleaboutKarolides,theGreekPremier.Iratherfanciedthechap.Fromallaccountsheseemedtheonebigmanintheshow;andheplayedastraightgametoo,whichwasmorethancouldbesaidformostofthem.IgatheredthattheyhatedhimprettyblacklyinBerlinandVienna,butthatweweregoingtostickbyhim,andonepapersaidthathewastheonlybarrierbetweenEuropeandArmageddon.IrememberwonderingifIcouldgetajobinthoseparts.ItstruckmethatAlbaniawasthesortofplacethatmightkeepamanfromyawning.

           Aboutsixo’clockIwenthome,dressed,dinedattheCaféRoyal,andturnedintoamusic-hall.Itwasasillyshow,allcaperingwomenandmonkey-facedmen,andIdidnotstaylong.ThenightwasfineandclearasIwalkedbacktotheflatIhadhirednearPortlandPlace.