Africa, and then get on to their own affairs. A lot of Imperialist ladies asked

me to tea to meet schoolmasters from New Zealand and editors from Vancouver, and

that was the dismalest business of all. Here was I, thirty-seven years old,

sound in wind and limb, with enough money to have a good time, yawning my head

off all day. I had just about settled to clear out and get back to the veld, for

I was the best bored man in the United Kingdom.

 

That afternoon I had been worrying my brokers about investments to give my mind

something to work on, and on my way home I turned into my club—rather a

pot-house, which took in Colonial members. I had a long drink, and read the

evening papers. They were full of the row in the Near East, and there was an

article about Karolides, the Greek Premier.

 

I rather fancied the chap. From all accounts he seemed the one big man in the

show; and he played a straight game too, which was more than could be said for

most of them. I gathered that they hated him pretty blackly in Berlin and

Vienna, but that we were going to stick by him, and one paper said that he was

the only barrier between Europe and Armageddon. I remember wondering if I could

get a job in those parts.

 

It struck me that Albania was the sort of place that might keep a man from

yawning.

 

About six o’clock I went home, dressed, dined at the Café Royal, and turned into

a music-hall. It was a silly show, all capering women and monkey-faced men, and