And so, as Pepys would say, home, and to bed, feeling that there was certainly a fascinating exhilaration in London’s game of Going On.
In London I met an American friend, a busy New York man of letters.
“I come to London every season,” said he, “for six week-ends. These are spent at country-houses, and are planned for a long time ahead.”
At first, I wondered what he did between the week-ends, but I soon learned that what with getting to and from one country-place, and arranging to go to and from another, the insignificant Wednesday or Thursday in between is totally lost sight of.
Distance to a week-end Mecca is counted as nothing; and so, when I was invited to a house-party at a villa some twelve miles out of Paris, I prepared to go as casually as if my destination were within the Dominions of the Unsetting Sun.
There seemed to be several routes from London to Paris, and each was recommended to me as “the only possible way”; but I decided upon the Dover-Calais route, and left Victoria station on the special train.
A friend who came to “see me off” insisted on providing me with a put-up luncheon, saying the only preventive of Channel bothers was to take a bite before embarking.
So persistent was he, that I accepted his offer to put an end to his argument, and waited in my compartment while he ran for the “bite.”