and people won't put up with that excellent one taken under the
crab-apple tree any longer.

I was caught just right there. The sun was in an indulgent mood and
winked at the signs of advancing age. The bald patch was out of sight,
and the smile would have softened the heart of an income-tax assessor.
I acquired the negative from the amateur performer, and had it
vignetted, which made it better still, as there was a space between
the cashmere sock and the spring trousering in the original that I did
not want attention drawn to. I had a large number of prints made, and
dealt them out to anybody who asked for a photograph of me. At first
they aroused considerable enthusiasm, but after five or six years a
look of doubt began to appear on the faces of the recipients. Hadn't I
got a later one? This was very nice, but--I pointed out that I hadn't
changed at all, or only a very little. At my best I was still like
that; and didn't they want me at my best?

At last a person described by himself as plain-spoken, and by other
people as offensively rude, said that I had never really been as
good-looking as that, with all possible allowances made, and any way
he wanted a photograph and not a memorial card. I took a firm stand,
and said that if he wasn't satisfied with that one he could go without
altogether, and he said in the most insulting way that he supposed he
should be himself again in time if he took a tonic.

A few more episodes of that sort eventually drove me to it. I passed
my _viva-voce_ examination at the hands of the young lady at the desk,
paid my fees, got my testamur, and was shown into the torture-chamber,
where the head executioner was busy adjusting his racks and screws.