them going? I ask myself. And I feel ashamed of myself and my Bird.

There is though a Philosophic Doctrine--I studied it at College,
and I know that many serious people believe it--which maintains
that all men, in spite of appearances and pretensions, all live
alike for Pleasure. This theory certainly brings portly,
respected persons very near to me. Indeed with a sense of low
complicity I have sometimes followed and watched a Bishop. Was
he too on the hunt for Pleasure, solemnly pursuing his Bird?




_At The Bank_


Entering the Bank in a composed manner, I drew a cheque and
handed it to the cashier through the grating. Then I eyed him
narrowly. Would not that astute official see that I was only
posing as a Real Person? No; he calmly opened a little drawer,
took out some real sovereigns, counted them carefully, and
handed them to me in a brass-tipped shovel. I went away feeling
I had perpetrated a delightful fraud. I had got some of the gold
of the actual world!

Yet now and then, at the sight of my name on a visiting card, or
of my face photographed in a group among other faces, or when I
see a letter addressed in my hand, or catch the sound of my own
voice, I grow shy in the presence of a mysterious Person who is
myself, is known by my name, and who apparently does exist. Can