At the corner of Sloane Square I had an unexpected and rather dramatic reminder of my celebrity. As we emerged from the King's Road a procession of five or six sandwich-men suddenly appeared from the direction of Symons Street, shuffling dejectedly along at intervals of a few yards. They were carrying double boards, on which, boldly printed in red-and-black letters, stared the following announcement:
MADAME TUSSAUD'S
MARYLEBONE ROAD
NEIL LYNDON
A LIFELIKE PORTRAIT
I gazed down at them with a sort of fascinated interest. Somehow or other it seemed rather like reading one's own tombstone, and I couldn't help wondering whether I was in the main hall or whether I had been dignified with an eligible site in the Chamber of Horrors. If it hadn't been for my appointment I should most certainly have taken a cab straight up to Marylebone Road in order to find out.
Promising myself that treat on the morrow, I stuck to my seat, and at ten minutes to five by the station clock we drew up outside Victoria. I got off and walked briskly along to Edith Terrace. Turning the corner of the street, I observed the figure of Miss Gertie 'Uggins leaning against the front railings, apparently engaged in conversation with an errand boy on the other side of the road. As soon as she recognized me she dived down the area steps, reappearing at the front door just as I reached the house.
"I was watchin' for yer," she remarked in a hoarse whisper. "There's summun wants to see yer in there." She jerked her thumb towards the sitting-room. "It's a lidy," she added.
"A lady!" I said. "What sort of a lady?"
"Ow! A reel lidy. She's got a lovely 'at."