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Now about that poem, “The Inn at the End of the World,” or some such thing. He is inclined to think that he did write it, but he cannot remember where it was published. Now he has lost his glasses, ridiculously small glasses, which he has been continually attempting to fix firmly upon his nose. Slapping yourself about the chest is an excellent way to find glasses.

Well, it is very flattering to be told that one is so well known in America. But so he had heard before. Describes himself as a “philosophical journalist.” Did not know that there was an audience in America for his kind of writing. Wonders whether democracy as carried on there “on such a gigantic scale” can keep right on successfully. Admits a division between our two peoples. “Trenches have been dug between us,” he declares.

Rises to a remark about the Englishman’s everlasting garden. “He likes to have a little fringe about him,” he says. And then tells a little story, which one might say contains all the elements of his art.

When he first came to Beaconsfield, Mr. Chesterton said, the policemen used to touch their helmets to him, until he told them to stop it. Because, he said, he felt that rather he should touch his hat to the policemen. “Saluting the colours, as it were,” he explained. “For,” he added, “are they not officers of the King?”

Mr. Chesterton apologised for being, as he put it, excessively talkative. This was occasioned, he said, by “worry and fatigue.” I declined to stay for tea, as I noticed a chugging car awaiting in front of the house. “You must come to see me again,” said the grand young man of England. The last I saw of him he was rolling through his garden, tossing his mane; the famous garden that rose up and hit him, you remember, at the time of his unfortunate fall.

Fine time I had with young Walpole. Those English certainly have the drop on us in the matter of clubs. They live about in the haunts beloved of Thackeray, and everybody else you ever heard of. Pleasant place, the Garrick. Something like our Players, but better. Slick collection of old portraits. Fine bust there of Will Shakespeare, found bottled up in some old passage.

Fashionable young man, Walpole. I can’t remember exactly whether or not he had on all these things; but he’s the sort that, if he had on nothing, would look as if he had: silk topper, spats, buttonhole bouquet. Asked me if I had yet been to Ascot. “Oh, you must go to Ascot.” Buys his cigarettes, in that English way, in bulk, not by the box. “Stuff some in your pocket,” he said. “Won’t you have a whiskey and soda?”

Difficult person to talk with, as the only English he knows is the King’s English. I was endeavouring to explain that I had left New York rather suddenly. “I just beat it, you know,” I said.

“You beat it?” said Mr. Walpole.

“Yes, I just up and skidooed.”

“You skidooed?”

I saw that I should have to talk like John Milton. “Sure,” I said, “I left without much preparation.” And then we spoke of some writer I do not care for. “I don’t get him,” I said.

“You don’t get him?” inquired Mr. Walpole.

“No,” I said, “I can’t see him at all.”

“You can’t see him?” queried Mr. Walpole.

More Milton, I perceived. “I quite fail,” I said, “to appreciate the gentleman’s writings.”

Mr. Walpole got that.

“Fortitude” had done him very well. The idea of Russia had always fascinated him; he had enough money to run him for a couple of years, and he was leaving shortly for Russia. “Is there any one here you would like me to help you to see?” he asked. Queer way for a gentleman to treat a probable crook. “Have you met Mr. James?” Walpole was very strong with Mr. James, it seemed.