would have irritated me, because I knew it was a preliminary to his
remark that as he had an article to write which must be finished that
evening he would not be able to help me with the washing-up. A
hackneyed dodge of his. Oh, I could tell you a tale of the meanness of
men.

'Henry, something has happened,' I began.

Without looking round he remarked, 'Don't disturb me. I must write up
a brief biographical sketch of Courtenay Colville, the actor. He's
been taken seriously ill and may be dead just in time for the morning
papers.' In this way do journalists speak. To them life and death,
all the tremendous happenings of the world--wars, revolutions, or even
weddings of revue actresses--are just so much matter for printed and
pictorial display. Do you think, if a great and honoured statesman
dies, sub-editors care two pins about his public services? Not they.
All they worry about is whether he is worth double-column headings, a
long primer intro., and a line across the page.

'I didn't know Courtenay Colville was so ill,' I commented mildly.
What I did know was that he was reported to have sprained his right toe
at golf, and only an hour previously I should have commented
caustically on Henry's description of this 'serious illness.' Now I
came up to him and put my arm about his neck.

'I've just put on a clean collar--be careful,' he said, shaking off my
hand.

'Henry, dear, I've landed a servant at last,' I breathed.