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 the business. I was getting so light that I felt that, when Lord Worplesdon kicked me, I should just soar up to the ceiling like an air-balloon.

The club was one of those large clubs that look like prisons. I used to go there to lunch with my uncle, the one who left me his money, and I always hated the place. It was one of those clubs that are all red leather and hushed whispers.

I'm bound to say, though, there wasn't much hushed whispering when I started my interview with Lord Worplesdon. His voice was one of my childhood's recollections.

He was most extraordinarily like Florence. He had just the same eyes. I felt boneless from the start.

"Good morning," I said.

"What?" he said. "Speak up. Don't mumble."

I hadn't known he was deaf. The last time we'd had any conversation—on the subject of razors—he had done all the talking. This seemed to me to put the lid on it.

"I only said 'Good morning,'" I shouted.

"Good what? Speak up. I believe you're sucking sweets. Oh, good morning? I remember you now. You're the boy who spoiled my razor."

I didn't half like this re-opening of old wounds. I hurried on.

"I came about Edwin, Lord Worplesdon," I said.

"Who?"

"Edwin. Your son."

"What about him?"

"Florence told me to see you."

"Who?"

"Florence. Your daughter."

"What about her?"

All this comedy duo business, mind you, as if we were bellowing at each other across the street. All round the room you could see old gentlemen shooting out of their chairs like rockets and dashing off at a gallop to write to the committee about it. Thousands of waiters had appeared from nowhere, and were hanging about dusting table-legs. If ever a business wanted to be discussed privately, this seemed to me to be it. And it was just about as private as a conversation through megaphones in Piccadilly Circus.

"Didn't she write to you?"

"I got a letter from her. I tore it up. I didn't read it."

Jolly, what? I began to understand what a shipwrecked Johnny must feel when he finds there's something gone wrong with the life-belt.

I thought I might as well get to the point and get it over.

"Edwin's going to marry a palmist," I said.