toast and a glass of milk, he played one game of his own particular
kind of Patience, prepared his breakfast things and fire ready for
the next morning, smoked his seventh and last cigarette, and went to
bed at eleven o'clock.

He was fond of the theatre, but avoided serious pieces. He
preferred to take his Shakespeare from the book, finding that the
spirit of the plays rather evaporated under modern theatrical
treatment. In one of his books he brightens up the old illustration
of Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark by putting it thus: "If the
character of Hamlet be entirely omitted, the play must suffer, even
though Henry Irving himself be cast for the title-role." Anyone
going to the theatre in this spirit would be likely to be less
disappointed by performances that were comic or even frankly
farcical. Latterly, when he grew slightly deaf, listening to any
kind of piece became too much of an effort; nevertheless, he
continued to the last the habit of going to one pantomime every
winter.

There were about twenty houses where he visited, but he seldom
accepted an invitation to dinner--it upset the regularity of his
life; besides, he belonged to no club and had no means of returning
hospitality. When two colonial friends called unexpectedly about
noon one day, soon after he settled in London, he went to the
nearest cook-shop in Fetter Lane and returned carrying a dish of hot
roast pork and greens. This was all very well once in a way, but
not the sort of thing to be repeated indefinitely.

On Thursdays, instead of going to the Museum, he often took a day
off, going into the country sketching or walking, and on Sundays,