In the last days of
December, 1921.
ABROAD WITH MARK TWAIN
HOW MARK WOULD SAFEGUARD ENGLAND.[A]
“Not on your life,” said Mark Twain, in pajamas and dressing gown, lolling in his big armchair at Brown’s (“the only subdued and homelike inn left in London,” he used to call it)—“not if you bring the Bath Club (and tub) right into this suite so I don’t have to shock my good English friends by painting the town blue skipping across Dover Street in my dressing gown. By the way,” he added, winking an eye at Bram Stoker, “my daughter Clara bought me this—” (he held up the skirts of his bathrobe with both hands) “a most refined girl! If she wasn’t, would she have sent me a wire like this?
“‘Much worried by newspapers. Remember proprieties.’”
“And what did you answer?” asked Bram.
“None of your business! You are getting as fresh as a reporter,” snapped Twain, with mock severity, while looking at me.
In the meanwhile I consulted my notebook. “It’s sixteen years since the Kaiser—” I reopened the case—
“Oh, I have a notebook too. Wait a minute,” interrupted Twain. He gave his secretary directions, and presently read from an old, much worn diary, sustaining my date-line as it were—
“... since this democratic lamb and the Imperial lion laid down together, a little General providing grub—”