I had got my pile--not one of the
big ones, but good enough for me; and I had figured out all kinds
of ways of enjoying myself. My father had brought me out from
Scotland at the age of six, and I had never been home since; so
England was a sort of Arabian Nights to me, and I counted on
stopping there for the rest of my days.
But from the first I was disappointed with it. In about a week I
was tired of seeing sights, and in less than a month I had had
enough of restaurants and theatres and race-meetings. I had no real
pal to go about with, which probably explains things. Plenty of
people invited me to their houses, but they didn't seem much
interested in me. They would fling me a question or two about
South Africa, and then get on their own affairs. A lot of Imperialist
ladies asked me to tea to meet schoolmasters from New Zealand
and editors from Vancouver, and that was the dismalest business of
all. Here was I, thirty-seven years old, sound in wind and limb,
with enough money to have a good time, yawning my head off all
day. I had just about settled to clear out and get back to the veld,
for I was the best bored man in the United Kingdom.
That afternoon I had been worrying my brokers about
investments to give my mind something to work on, and on my
way home I turned into my club--rather a pot-house, which took
in Colonial members.
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