THE EPIGRAM.
George and I had been discussing the prospect for elderly and slightly shop-soiled littérateurs under present circumstances. The result was not wholly enlivening.
"If I had a few hundreds clear," said George at last, "I'd give up Fleet Street and start a farm. I've always loved the country."
"My dear George," I answered, speaking slowly, "for a man to take a farm because he loves the country is to make a master of what should remain a mistress."
Just like that. Because I was going slowly I was able at the last moment to substitute the word "mistress" for "servant," which would have been merely banal. Not till then did I recognise the bright perfection of the completed remark. No wonder George stared enviously.
"What's that out of?" he asked.
"Nothing as yet." But I had already determined that it should not long remain unset. I mean, in these days one simply can't afford to go chucking gems about in gratuitous conversation. The difficulty was what exactly to do with it.
The sparkling causerie was my first idea. That evening I refilled my fountain-pen, opened a fresh packet of foolscap, and began:—