I glance at it; it is a review
of the Professor's novel. Not a kind review--rather insulting than
otherwise. He hates BEILBY, and he does not know the Military Critic.
If he joins us, there will be more international discussion. I get
them on to the balcony, and pretend to go to ring the bell for coffee.
I whisper to CRIMPTON. He is quite taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never
dreamed the Professor was not English." He wants to tell the Professor
that, thinks he will be pleased. He apologises to me; it is dreadfully
disagreeable to be apologised to by a guest. "All my fault," I say;
and, really, so it is. CRIMPTON remembers an evening engagement, and
goes off _a l'Anglaise_.
[Illustration: A PENNY FOR THE MEMBER'S THOUGHTS.]
The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I feel
inclined to apologise for CRIMPTON. On second thoughts, I don't. They
do not look like men who write about their adventures in their native
newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off my mind. The Military
Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was that old man who fancied himself
so about SHERMAN's March?" "That was General HOME, who held a command
under SHERMAN." The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him
that before dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused.
It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, BEILBY _will_ have something
to drink, and another cigar--a very large one.
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