THE HAT.
"Of course," said the lady of the house, "you can turn yourself into a hermit if you like. We'll build you a little cell, and——"
"What?" I said. "A real hermit, in a long robe like a bath-gown? With a real cell, and a dish of herbs on a plain deal table, and some rocks to sleep on, and a folio volume always open at the same place? May I really be like that?"
"Yes," she said, "that's what you're coming to. And there'll be a notice stuck up on a tree—'This way to the Hermit,' with a painted hand."
"I know the sort," I said. "A hand with only one finger."
"Yes, one finger pointing in the direction of the cell. And all the village children will follow you when you go out, and you'll threaten them with a gnarled stick, and you'll be indicted as a nuisance."
"But not for a long time," I said. "I shall have lots of good hermiting before that happens. I shall have my breakfasts quite alone and nobody will ask me to go to Mrs. Latimer's musical afternoon in London, 4 to 7."
"Well, you're not a hermit yet, so you'll have to come to Mrs. Latimer's with me. You know you'll enjoy it when you get there."
"I won't."
"And you'll meet plenty of your friends."
"But I don't want to meet my friends," I said. "Friends are people yon go on being friends with without meeting them. That's the essence of true friendship, you know. Absence doesn't alter it. You keep on thinking of dear old Jack and what fun you used to have together at Cambridge; and then some day a funny old gentleman comes up to you in the street and says you don't remember him, and you pretend you know him quite well, and it's Jack all the time, and you wonder how he's got so old while you yourself have kept on being as young as ever. That's friendship."
"This," she said, "is not an Essay Club."
"What should a woman know of friendship?" I said bitterly. "Besides, I shall have to get a new top-hat."
"Well," she said, "there's nothing so very awful in that. But what's the matter with the old one?"
"The old one," I said, "is a blacked sepulchre, and even the black part of it is not very good. The lining is of the sort that makes it necessary to place it on a table with the opening down. Fortunate woman, your hats require no lining and you don't take them off. You cannot sympathise with my feelings. Such a top-hat as mine is good enough for a Board meeting, but it cannot go to Mrs. Latimer's musical afternoon. Her footman would despise me."
"Very well," she said, "get your new hat and have it ready for this day fortnight."
The upshot of this conversation was that on the following day I went to London, wearing my old top-hat, and called at Messrs. Hutchfield's, the famous hatters. It is not a very large shop, but it is very high, and something like a million white hat-boxes, each presumably containing a hat, are stacked in gleaming tiers from floor to ceiling. The higher ones are fetched down by means of a long pole provided at one end with a sort of inverted hook. It is a most dexterous and pleasing trick, only to be attempted by an old hand. An inexperienced practitioner would certainly bring down an avalanche of hat-boxes on the heads of the customers. On one side of the room there is a patent stove in which several irons were heating, not for torture, but for the improvement of hats. Several aproned attendants were bustling about, and one or two customers with bare heads were eyeing one another with an exaggerated air of haughty nonchalance, as who should say, "Observe, we do not wear white aprons. We do not belong to the shop. We are genuine customers. We are waiting for our hats."
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning, Sir," said one of the attendants; "what would you be requiring to-day?"
"I think," I said, "it was a hat. Yes, I'm sure it was. A top-hat, you know—one of your best."
"Pardon me, Sir." With a graceful and airy movement he whisked off my old hat and took its measure in length and breadth.
"You mustn't draw any inference from the lining," I said. "I'm not really as poor as all that. I've meant to have it re-lined several times, but somehow I never brought it off. Still, it's been a good hat."
"Yes, Sir," he said.
"Could it be——"
"Oh, yes, Sir, we could re-line it for you and make it look almost as good as new."
"Splendid!" I cried. "Then I shan't want a new one, shall I?"
"Well, Sir, it would take some little time. You would want to wear something to go on with till it's finished."
"There is," I said, "some force in that. Put the machine on me at once."
"The what, Sir?"
"The machine," I said. "The beautifully contrived, apparatus made of ever so many wooden keys like the inside of a piano—only those are set in circles. It fits close to the head and you can make it looser or tighter, and when you've got it on you look like a Siamese king in his crown. And when you take it off you tear out a piece of paper and that gives you the exact measure to a hair's-breadth. Come, I'm ready."
His face relaxed into a serious kind of smile.
"Certainly," he said, "you shall have it on, Sir, if you like. But I thought, being an old customer and your measure being known, it might not be necessary."
"Very well," I said, "I'll give up the machine, but I don't see how I can take any further pleasure in this purchase. Still, if you know me so well——"
"We don't forget customers of thirty years' standing," he said proudly.
"That settles it," I said. "I will now buy four hats—a top-hat, a bowler, a soft felt and a straw hat."
"Yes, Sir," he said, and from an upper tier he extracted a hat-box out of which he shortly produced a top-hat and placed it on my head. It did not fit at first, but fire soon reduced it to obedience.
"The others must be similarly treated," I said as I left the shop.
Unfortunately in the interval it had begun to rain and every taxi seemed to be taken. You know what a new top-hat looks like after that. However, with two hats to choose from, I am now ready to face Mrs. Latimer's footman.
R. C. L.
"It has been arranged that the dinner which the Modern Languages Association had intended to give to Professor Rudolf Eucken, of Jena, on the occasion of his forthcoming visit to England to lecture before the Association, shall be amalgamated with the public dinner arranged by the Committee of Friends and Admirers of Professor Eucken."—Morning Post.
Professor Eucken (at last giving way): "What is this, waiter?"
Waiter (confidentially): "Another little amalgamation, Sir. The Modern Languages' ice pudding and the Friends and Admirers' soft roes on toast."