three-legged loo-tables, the wedding-cake ornament under its glass
case playing the part of white ghost.

In these days, when "Imperial cement" is at a premium, who would dare
suggest that the emotions of a parlour can by any possibility be the
same as those exhibited in a salon furnished in the style of Louis
Quatorze; that the tears of Bayswater can possibly be compared for
saltness with the lachrymal fluid distilled from South Audley Street
glands; that the laughter of Clapham can be as catching as the
cultured cackle of Curzon Street? But we, whose best clothes are
exhibited only in parlours, what are we to do? How can we lay bare
the souls of Duchesses, explain the heart-throbs of peers of the
realm? Some of my friends who, being Conservative, attend Primrose
"tourneys" (or is it "Courts of love"? I speak as an outsider.
Something mediaeval, I know it is) do, it is true, occasionally
converse with titled ladies. But the period for conversation is
always limited owing to the impatience of the man behind; and I doubt
if the interview is ever of much practical use to them, as conveying
knowledge of the workings of the aristocratic mind. Those of us who
are not Primrose Knights miss even this poor glimpse into the world
above us. We know nothing, simply nothing, concerning the deeper
feelings of the upper ten. Personally, I once received a letter from
an Earl, but that was in connection with a dairy company of which his
lordship was chairman, and spoke only of his lordship's views
concerning milk and the advantages of the cash system. Of what I
really wished to know--his lordship's passions, yearnings and general
attitude to life--the circular said nothing.

Year by year I find myself more and more in a minority. One by one
my literary friends enter into this charmed aristocratic circle;