"Poor sportsman, Smithson," I muttered, struggling into my mask.

* * * * *

EXPERIENCES.

There are few of my friends whom I hold in higher respect than the
Fladworths. Fladworth is a prosperous accountant, quite in the front
rank of his profession, and for the last three years an indefatigable
War-worker. His two sons joined up on the day War was declared; his
three daughters are all nursing, and for the last two years their
town house has been a convalescent home. Mrs. Fladworth is a saint of
hospitality, and their country house is always full for the week-end
with people who want a rest. And one can accept this hospitality with
a good conscience, because they can afford it. It does not involve
the painful self-sacrifice shown by some people, of whom it has been
happily said that, when their supplies are short, they will insist on
your staying for a meal, "even if they have to kill a rabbit with a
Christian name."

The Fladworths are charming hosts, but they have a weakness--a passion
for intellectual games, serious variants, for the most part, on
"Consequences," and a most trying ordeal for persons who cannot spell
or are ignorant of history or general information. Moreover, to add to
the strain, Fladworth is always inventing new games, "so that all may
start fair." This happened on the occasion of my last visit, when he
introduced the company to "Experiences." Every one, having contributed
sixpence to the pool, was expected to describe the most interesting
or exciting event in his or her life. One of the party, who did not
compete, then decided which was the best experience, and the winner