It was more for the sake of talking of his than anything else that I kept up with him. I did not really doubt his care and conscientiousness, but it is always pleasant to chat about one’s self. “My five shillings subscription to the Daily Telegraph’s Sixpenny Fund for the Unemployed—got that down all right?” I asked him.
Yes, he replied, it was entered.
“As a matter of fact, now I come to think of it,” I added, “it was ten shillings altogether. They spelt my name wrong the first time.”
Both subscriptions had been entered, he told me.
“Then I have been to four charity dinners,” I reminded him; “I forget what the particular charity was about. I know I suffered the next morning. Champagne never does agree with me. But, then, if you don’t order it people think you can’t afford it. Not that I don’t like it. It’s my liver, if you understand. If I take more—”
He interrupted me with the assurance that my attendance had been noted.
“Last week I sent a dozen photographs of myself, signed, to a charity bazaar.”
He said he remembered my doing so.
“Then let me see,” I continued, “I have been to two ordinary balls. I don’t care much about dancing, but a few of us generally play a little bridge; and to one fancy dress affair. I went as Sir Walter Raleigh. Some men cannot afford to show their leg. What I say is, if a man can, why not? It isn’t often that one gets the opportunity of really looking one’s best.”
He told me all three balls had been duly entered: and commented upon.