Marge: What name, please?
He gave me his name quite simply, without any attempt at rudeness or facetiousness. I should say that this was typical of the whole character of the man. With a beautiful and punctilious courtesy he removed his hat—not a very good hat—on entering the house. I formed the impression from the ease with which he did this that the practice must have been habitual with him.
The only thing that mars this cherished memory is that it was not the Gladstone you mean, nor any relative of his, but a gentleman of the same name who had called to see if he could interest her ladyship in a scheme for the recovery of some buried treasure. He did not stay long, and Lady Bilberry said I ought to have known better.
About this time I received by post a set of verses which bear quite a resemblance to the senile vivacity of the verses which the real Gladstone addressed to my illustrious example of autobiographical art. The verses I received were anonymous, and as a matter of fact the postmark on the envelope was Beaconsfield. Still, you never know, do you?
Marge.
When Pentonville’s over and comes the release,
With a year’s supervision perhaps by the p’lice,
Your longing to meet all your pals may be large,
But make an exception, and do not ask Marge.
She’s Aspasia, Pavlova, Tom Sayers, Tod Sloan,
Spinoza, and Barnum, and Mrs. Chapone;
For a bloke that has only just got his discharge,
She’s rather too dazzling a patchwork, is Marge.
Never mind, never mind, you have got to go slow,
One section a year is the most you can know;
If you study a life-time, you’ll jest on the barge
Of Charon with madd’ningly manifold Marge.