Henry Lucy
Henry Lucy—Toby, M.P.—was an old and amusing friend; we often enjoyed the pleasant parties to which Lady Lucy invited us, and they were our guests in London and frequently at Underlea, when they lived hard-by, at Hythe. Perhaps the greatest of the many surprises I have had was the discovery that instead of the poor journalist he was thought to be, he left a quarter of a million. How so vast a fortune was accumulated has remained a mystery to me, fostered by the fact that during the War they discharged their servants as a duty, and ran their cottage themselves, with the simple help of one old woman and then only once in a week. However his wealth was achieved, it was hardly by such means as those of a brother journalist, a wily Scot, who, when he was seen coming out of a telegraph office by a friend, who knew his penurious ways and asked: "Surely, Mac, you've not been wasting your money in sending telegrams?" replied: "Not I, mon, I've only been giving my fountain pen a drink!"
Lucy was an odd looking little creature, with his hair standing straight up, reminding me of some strange bird that might have escaped from the zoo. I remember his telling me once that, when dining with Lord Rothschild, he arrived late, jumped from a hansom, ran up the steps, flung his Inverness cape into the arms of a footman, but, as he passed his hand through his hair, was stopped from entering the dining-room by a stately butler, who told him, pointing to a door, that he would find brushes in his lordship's dressing-room.
On the occasion of one of his visits to us, the talk turned upon Forbes-Robertson's acting in The Passing of the Third Floor Back. Lucy told my wife that he had not yet seen the play, but much wished to do so, and would she tell him the story. To the amazement of those who heard her, she gave the most perfect and dramatic illustration I have ever listened to—if I may use the expression, she seemed to be inspired. We sat spell-bound as the various incidents were unfolded and brought to a wonderful climax. After a pause, Lucy rose from his chair, took her hand, and said: "Good-bye, my dear; there is no need for me to see the play."
VII
MORE MEN OF MARK
"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"
For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.
My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes." The phrase came to stay—being often used by us. In writing further of departed guests—"Shadows of the things that have been"—it will constantly be on my tongue.