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Anastasius Papadopoulos, a curate, or a champion wrestler. He would do
desperate things for a month or two; but then he would wake up sane
one fine morning and seek out Maisie Ellerton in a salutary state of
penitence. I wish I knew a curate who combined a passion for bears and a
yearning for ladylike tea-parties. I would take him forthwith to Cadogan
Gardens. Lola Brandt and himself would have tastes in common and would
fall in love with each other on the spot.
Of course there is the other time-honoured plan which I have not yet
tried--to arm myself with diplomacy, call on Madame Brandt, and, working
on her feelings, persuade her in the name of the boy's mother and
sweetheart to make a noble sacrifice in the good, old-fashioned way. But
this seems such an unhumourous proceeding. If I am to achieve eumoiriety
I may as well do it with some distinction.

"Who doth Time gallop withal?" asks Orlando.
"With a thief to the gallows," says Rosalind. It is true. The days
have an uncanny way of racing by.


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