not to understand that let Mr Alf have been born where he might and
how he might he was always to be recognized as a desirable
acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. And that which he
so constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around him began at
last to believe,--and Mr Alf became an acknowledged something in the
different worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.

He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himself
as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, with
dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for the
dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on his
mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharp
severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost simplicity, but also
with the utmost care. He was unmarried, had a small house of his own
close to Berkeley Square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties,
kept four or five hunters in Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn
£6,000 a year out of the 'Evening Pulpit' and to spend about half of
that income. He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury,
whose diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had been
unwearied. Her letter to Mr Alf was as follows:


DEAR MR ALF,

Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem.
Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should
think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before
the autumn. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the
pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and
underground influences to get their volumes placed on every