open my eyes, set down the candle, draw the armchair close to the fire
(my fire), sink down, and am at peace, with nothing to mar my
happiness except the feeling that it is too good to be true.

At such moments I never see in my fire any likeness to a wild beast.
It roars me as gently as a sucking dove, and is as kind and cordial as
my host and hostess and the other people in the house. And yet I do
not have to say anything to it, I do not have to make myself agreeable
to it. It lavishes its warmth on me, asking nothing in return. For
fifteen mortal hours or so, with few and brief intervals, I have been
making myself agreeable, saying the right thing, asking the apt
question, exhibiting the proper shade of mild or acute surprise,
smiling the appropriate smile or laughing just so long and just so
loud as the occasion seemed to demand. If I were naturally a brilliant
and copious talker, I suppose that to stay in another's house would be
no strain on me. I should be able to impose myself on my host and
hostess and their guests without any effort, and at the end of the day
retire quite unfatigued, pleasantly flushed with the effect of my own
magnetism. Alas, there is no question of my imposing myself. I can
repay hospitality only by strict attention to the humble, arduous
process of making myself agreeable. When I go up to dress for dinner,
I have always a strong impulse to go to bed and sleep off my fatigue;
and it is only by exerting all my will-power that I can array myself
for the final labours: to wit, making myself agreeable to some man or
woman for a minute or two before dinner, to two women during dinner,
to men after dinner, then again to women in the drawing-room, and then
once more to men in the smoking-room. It is a dog's life. But one has
to have suffered before one gets the full savour out of joy. And I do
not grumble at the price I have to pay for the sensation of basking,
at length, in solitude and the glow of my own fireside.