I can forgive Sir Eustace easily enough, but I shall never forgive Nadina. Never, never, never!
The other day I was unpacking some tins that were wrapped in bits of an old Daily Budget, and I suddenly came upon the words, “The Man in the Brown Suit.” How long ago it seemed! I had, of course, severed my connection with the Daily Budget long ago—I had done with it sooner than it had done with me. My Romantic Wedding was given a halo of publicity.
My son is lying in the sun, kicking his legs. There’s a “man in a brown suit” if you like. He’s wearing as little as possible, which is the best costume for Africa, and is as brown as a berry. He’s always burrowing in the earth. I think he takes after Papa. He’ll have that same mania for Pleiocene clay.
Suzanne sent me a cable when he was born:
“Congratulations and love to the latest arrival on Lunatics’ Island. Is his head dolichocephalic or brachycephalic?”
I wasn’t going to stand that from Suzanne. I sent her a reply of one word, economical and to the point:
“Platycephalic!”
THE END