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it to a soul, Sir Gregory had kept his tragedy a secret from the world. Rightly or wrongly, he thought it made a fellow look such an ass. Chaps, he felt, chaps being what they were, would, if informed that he was mortifying the flesh at the whim of a woman, be inclined to laugh their silly heads off at a chap. But now the urge to confide in this sympathetic friend was too strong for him.
    ‘She says I’m too fat, and if I don’t reduce a bit the engagement’s off. She says she positively refuses to stand at the altar rails with someone who looks like … well, she was definitely outspoken about it. You know what girls are, especially these athletic girls who dash about tennis courts shouting “Forty love” and all that. They’re all for the lean, keen, trained-to-the-last-ounce stuff. Dam’ silly, of course, the whole thing. I put it to her straight. I said: “Dash it, old girl, what’s all this about? I’m not proposing to enter for the six-day bicycle race or something,” but nothing would move her. She said unless I ceased to resemble a captive balloon poised for its flight into the clouds, those wedding bells would not ring out. She said she was as fond of a laugh as the next girl, but that there were limits. I quote her verbatim.’
    ‘Good gracious!’
    Now that he had started to pour out his soul, Sir Gregory found it coming easier. His hostess was gazing at him wide-eyed, as if swearing, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful, and there came upon him something of the easy fluency which had enabled Othello on a similar occasion to make such a good story of his misfortunes.
    ‘So, the upshot is no butter, no sugar, no bread, no alcohol, no soups, no sauces, and I’m not allowed to swallow so much as a single potato. And that’s not all. She’s mapped out a whole chart of bally exercises for me. Up in the morning. Breathe deeply. Touch the toes. Light breakfast. Brisk walk. Chop down a tree or two. Light lunch. Another brisk walk. That’s the one I’m taking now, and how I’m to get home under my own steam with this blister … Ah well,’ said Sir Gregory, summoning all his manhood to his aid, ‘I mustn’t bore you with all this stuff. Merely observing that I am going through hell, I will now withdraw. No, no more tea, thanks. She specifies a single cup.’
    He rose heavily and made his way across the terrace. As he walked, he was thinking of that new pig of his. Pretty dashed ironical, he was feeling, that whereas he was under these strict orders to get thinner and thinner, Queen of Matchingham was encouraged – egged on with word and gesture, by gad – to get fatter and fatter. Why should there be one law for pigs and another for Baronets?
    Musing thus, he had reached the top of the drive and was congratulating himself on the fact that from there onwards for the next three-quarters of a mile it would be all downhill, when he heard his name called in a sharp, imperious voice and, turning, perceived the Hon. Galahad Threepwood.
2
    Gally was looking cold and stern.
    ‘A word with you, young Parsloe,’ he said.
    Sir Gregory’s full height was six foot one. He drew himself to it. Even in the days when they had been lads about town together, he had never like Gally Threepwood, and more recent association with him had done nothing to inaugurate a beautiful friendship.
    ‘I have no desire to speak to you, my good man,’ he said.
    Gally’s monocle flashed fire.
    ‘Oh, you haven’t? Well, I’m dashed well going to speak to you . Parsloe, it was the raw work of slippery customers of your kidney that led to the destruction of the cities of the plain and the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. What’s all this about your new pig?’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘Clarence says you imported it from Kent.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘A low trick.’
    ‘Perfectly legitimate. Show me the rule that says I mustn’t.’
    ‘There are higher things than rules,