where the pleasure ends and work begins. Even putting it in this way, I
fear I am guilty of a euphemism; for, now that I consider the matter
honestly, I recall no real pleasure or satisfaction derived from the
various entertainments I have attended during the last five or ten
years.

In the first place I am invariably tired when I come home at night--less
perhaps from the actual work I have done at my office than from the
amount of tobacco I have consumed and the nervous strain attendant on
hurrying from one engagement to another and keeping up the affectation
of hearty good-nature which is part of my stock in trade. At any rate,
even if my body is not tired, my head, nerves and eyes are distinctly
so.

I often feel, when my valet tells me that the motor is ordered at ten
minutes to eight, that I would greatly enjoy having him slip into the
dress-clothes he has so carefully laid out on my bed and go out to
dinner in my place. He would doubtless make himself quite as agreeable
as I. And then--let me see--what would I do? I sit with one of my
accordion-plaited silk socks half on and surrender myself to all the
delights of the most reckless imagination!

Yes, what would I choose if I could do anything in the world for the
next three hours? First, I think, I would like an egg--a poached egg,
done just right, like a little snowball, balanced nicely in the exact
center of a hot piece of toast! My mouth waters. Aunt Jane used to do
them like that. And then I would like a crisp piece of gingerbread and a
glass of milk. Dress? Not on your life! Where is that old smoking-jacket
of mine? Not the one with Japanese embroidery on it--no; the old one.
Given away? I groan aloud.