"Meanwhile" (I seem to hear you say) "what of the hairdresser who has
the same name as yourself and plies his trade next door but one? This
story--which so far is a poor enough thing--was surely to have been
about him." (So I seem to hear you say.)

Patience! It is about him, but it is also about the evils of
procrastination. In short, it is a kind of tract.

On the morning after my disappointing evening at the Alhambra, while
moving some papers on my desk, I brought to light the bill for the
powder and the essences. "Good Heavens!" I murmured, "the poor
fellow will be distracted not to have this;" and I took it in to him
straightway.

I apologised for the delay.

"There is no hurry," he replied. "Accounts can wait; But I hope," he
added, taking an envelope from a drawer, "that this letter for you
is equally unimportant. It came, I'm afraid, four days ago, and I was
always meaning to bring it in, but forgot."

Unimportant! It was merely an invitation from the most adorable woman
in London to share her box at the Russian Ballet on the previous
night, to see what she knew was my most desired performance,
_Carnaval, Les Sylphides_ and _Pelroushka_.

Either the hairdresser or I must move.

Or we must both take a course of memory training. I believe there is
some system on the market.