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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

calligraphy and filling in his diary—a log-book ot
details such as which horses had been out, where
foxes had been found, and so on.

It was eight-thirty by the time he'd had his bath
and was shouting from the top of the stairs to Mrs.
Timson, the buxom grey-haired cook: "Mrs. Tim-
son! Tell Henry to put that dinner on."

When that dinner had been put on and eaten
(there was a large joint of beef, I remember) he
asked me to play some music. I treadled away at the
pianola, while he dozed in a shabby arm-chair with
Moll, the fox-terrier, on his knees, and a litter of
newspapers at his carpet-slippered feet. I had
ambled to the end of a musical comedy arrangement
("The Geisha" I think it was) and was bundling
the perforated music-roll back again with reverse
mo don when he suddenly heaved himself out of the
chair, yawned, remarked that he'd give anything to
be able to play the piano properly, whistled to the
dogs, and turned them out into the night for an
airing. He then lit a couple of candles, extinguished
the unshaded oil-lamp, led the way upstairs, and
hoped Fd sleep all right. All this sounds humdrum,
but I have since then spent many a much duller
evening with people who were under the impression
that they were talking brilliantly. I have never cared
greatly about highly sophisticated persons, although
some of them may seek to enlarge their intellectual
experience by perusing my modest narrative.

Lying awake that night I listened to the wind
which was making queer noises round the flimsily
constructed house. Once or twice there was an out-
burst of hound music from the kennels. Through the
thin partition wall I could hear the grunts and snores
of the stablemen, whose dormitory was next to the

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