BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION.


_To_ 2nd Lieut. R.B. WHYTE,
1st Black Watch,
B.E.F.

MY DEAR ROBERT,--

Do you remember how in the old days we used to talk about my first book?
Of course it was to be an Oxford novel full of clever little
character-sketches--witty but not unkind: of subtle and pleasurable
hints at our own adventures, for no one had enjoyed Balliol and the city
of Oxford so hugely: of catch-words that repeated would bring back the
thrills and the laughter--_Psych. Anal._ and _Steady, Steady!_ of names
crammed with delectable memories--the Paviers', Cloda's Lane, and the
notorious Square and famous Wynd: of acid phrases, beautifully put, that
would show up once and for all those dear abuses and shams that go to
make Oxford. It was to surpass all Oxford Novels and bring us all
eternal fame.

You remember, too, the room? It was stuffy and dingy and the pictures
were of doubtful taste, but there were things to drink and smoke. The
imperturbable Ikla would be sitting in his chair pulling at one of his
impossibly luxurious pipes. You would be snorting in another--and I
would be holding forth ... but I am starting an Oxford novelette already
and there is no need. For two slightly senior contemporaries of ours
have already achieved fame. The hydrangeas have blossomed. "The Home"
has been destroyed by a Balliol tongue. The flower-girl has died her