"I think you're a ----" And she pointed to a little golden pig.

"I'm not," I retorted.

"What are you, then?"

"I'm a gentleman in a Greek tragedy."

We laughed and parted, and I went on my way cheered by the encounter.
I had spoken the exact truth, and found amusement in doing so. One has
often extracted humour from the contemplation of the dissolution of
others--that of the giant in "Jack the Giant-killer" for instance, and
the demise of the little boy with the pair of skates in the poem. Why
not extract it from the contemplation of one's own?

The only disadvantage of my position is that it give me, in spite of
myself, an odd sense of isolation from my kind. They are looking forward
to Easters and Junes and summers, and I am not. I also have a fatuous
feeling of superiority in being in closer touch than they with eternal
verities. I must take care that I do not play too much to the gallery,
that I do not grow too conceited over the singularity of my situation,
and arrive at the mental attitude of the criminal whose dominant
solicitude in connection with his execution was that he should be hanged
in his dress clothes. These reflections brought me to Eccleston Square.

Lady Kynnersley is that type of British matron who has children in fits
of absent-mindedness, and to whom their existence is a perpetual
shock. Her main idea in marrying the late Sir Thomas Kynnersley was to
associate herself with his political and philanthropic schemes. She is
the born committee woman, to whom a home represents a place where one