In May, 1906, having got away from Cambridge for a few days, I was enjoying myself in town. I was doing it in a very small way and under a sense of injustice, for I had nothing like the means at my disposal that I considered my due. In six months' time, on reaching my majority, I was to come into possession of thirty thousand pounds under my mother's will, and yet I had still to get along as best I might on a poor undergraduate's allowance from my father. He and I did not hit it off at all well. I was rather stage-struck, and had made up my mind that an actor's life was the life for me. He did not see it in that light, and was dead set on getting me into the Foreign Office, where, he argued, I could use my money and 'Varsity education to some purpose. If I had not been rather "green," and, I may as well admit, headstrong, I might have seen that he was right. Anyhow, we quarrelled, and he decided that, though he could not prevent me from committing what he called social suicide when I became my own master, he would at any rate put the financial screw on as long as he could. The result was that I found myself tied down to the smallest possible allowance, continued only on condition that I remained at Cambridge. I was plainly told, moreover, that if I were fool enough to throw up everything and go on the stage, I should have to exist as best I could. This gave me "furiously to think," as they say in France. I had sense enough to realize that budding actors do not fall on their feet at once, and that I should very likely be most unpleasantly hard up long before the blessed day came when I could open a bank account of my own. At the same time I was irritated at being kept in leading-strings, and my greatest desire was to find some way of circumventing my cautious parent.
In this frame of mind I set off to London one Friday to spend a week-end and a few pounds I happened to have in hand. Archie Hunter, one of my college chums, who was to have gone with me, managed to sprain his ankle the day before and had to stay indoors. I was half inclined to give up the expedition, but, chafing as I was under a sense of restraint, it seemed feeble to let my plans fall through on account of an absurd accident, and it was with a secret feeling of satisfaction at my own determination that I got out of the train at King's Cross, though I was beginning to feel that I might not enjoy myself so very much, after all, without a comrade.
I spent most of the afternoon hunting up fellows of my acquaintance in the West-end, and not finding them. Not knowing how to fill up the interval before dinner, I dropped into a well-known restaurant and sought solace in a whisky and soda and a cigarette. There were very few people in the bar—only a knot of two or three men discussing racing—and I sat, feeling a trifle lonely and not anticipating much fun for the evening. While I was cogitating the door opened and a well-dressed man came in. At the first glance I took him to be a retired Army officer. His hair and moustache were iron-grey, and, though he might have been well on the wrong side of forty, he looked every bit as active and supple as myself. His features were remarkably handsome, and he had an unmistakable air of good breeding, combined with the easy bearing of an experienced man of the world; in fact, he was just such a type as youngsters like myself secretly envy and take as their model. He glanced carelessly at me as he came in, ordered a whisky and soda, and, standing near me at the bar, took a long pull at his drink, after which he reached over the bar to take a match. As he did so his arm touched my glass and overturned it.
"HIS ARM TOUCHED MY GLASS AND OVERTURNED IT."
He was profuse in his apologies.
"How awfully careless of me!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. Hope I haven't spilt any of the stuff over your clothes?"
I answered that it was not of the slightest consequence, but he continued to excuse himself, and insisted on having my glass refilled, in spite of my protests. In another two minutes we were chatting away as if we had known each other for years. My new friend proved a delightful companion. He seemed to have been everywhere worth mentioning and to know all sorts of celebrities. He had a way of keeping the talk on the subjects which most interested me, and I felt a secret satisfaction at talking on equal terms with a man so much older and cleverer than myself. Although I did not realize it at the time, he was one of those accomplished conversationalists who do not appear to be saying much, but manage to make the other fellows think they can talk rather well. He soon found out that I was a Cambridge man, and as he turned out to be an old Cantab himself, that was another bond of union between us. We exchanged cards, and I found that his bore the name of "Captain Wyngate."
We got on so uncommonly well together that I was quite annoyed to find it was half-past seven, and that I should soon have to think about my solitary dinner.
As if divining my thoughts, my new acquaintance said:—