AUCTOR. I know that; but what am I to do?
LECTOR. Why, what was the next point in the pilgrimage that was even
tolerably noteworthy?
AUCTOR. I suppose the Bridge of Boats.
LECTOR. And how far on was that?
AUCTOR. About fourteen miles, more or less ... I passed through a town
with a name as long as my arm, and I suppose the Bridge of Boats must
have been nine miles on after that.
LECTOR. And it rained all the time, and there was mud?
AUCTOR. Precisely.
LECTOR. Well, then, let us skip it and tell stories.
AUCTOR. With all my heart. And since you are such a good judge of
literary poignancy, do you begin.
LECTOR. I will, and I draw my inspiration from your style.
Once upon a time there was a man who was born in Croydon, and whose
name was Charles Amieson Blake. He went to Rugby at twelve and left it
at seventeen. He fell in love twice and then went to Cambridge till he
was twenty-three. Having left Cambridge he fell in love more mildly,
and was put by his father into a government office, where he began at
_180_ pounds a year. At thirty-five he was earning 500 pounds a year,
and perquisites made 750 pounds a year. He met a pleasant lady and
fell in love quite a little compared with the other times.
