But my father, the late Mr. Harold Chylde, had gentlemanly tastes.

How can I blame him? I have the same.

He loved to guide the rapid steed along the avenue.

I also love to guide the rapid steed.

He could not persuade his delicate lungs--pardon my seeming knowledge of
anatomy--to tolerate the confined air in offices, counting-houses, banks,
or other haunts of persons whose want of refinement of taste impels them
to the crude distractions of business-life.

I have the same delicacy of constitution. Indeed, unless the atmosphere
I breathe is rendered slightly narcotic by the smoke of Cabañas and
slightly stimulating by the savor of heeltaps,--excuse the technical
term,--I find myself debilitated to a degree. The open air is extremely
offensive to me. I confine myself to clubs and billiard-rooms.

My late father, being a man distinguished for his clear convictions, was
accustomed to sustain the statement of those convictions by wagers.
The inherent generosity of his nature obliged him often to waive his
convictions in behalf of others, and thus to abandon the receipt of
considerable sums. He also found the intellectual excitement of games of
chance necessary to his mental health.

I cannot blame him for these and similar gentlemanly tastes. My own are
the same.

The late Mr. A. Bratley, at that time in his dotage, and recurring to