My family had a curious dread that I should marry a groom. I never did. To be quite honest, I never had the opportunity. But I did get engaged to quite a lot of other things.

My first engagement was when I was very, very young. He was a humorous man, and perhaps I was wrong in taking him so seriously. Still, he must have adored me. When I accepted him his hair turned completely white—an infallible test of the depth of emotion.

He was an excellent whip. It used to be a wonderful sight to see him taking a pair of young horses down Ludgate Hill on a greasy day at noon, with the whole road chock-a-block with traffic, lighting a pipe with a wooden match with one hand, carrying on an animated conversation with the other with a fare on the front seat, dropping white-hot satire on the heads of drivers less efficient than himself, and always getting the ’bus through safely with about an inch to spare on each side.

On the other hand, he was almost entirely ignorant of Marcus Aurelius, Henry James, Step-dancing, Titian, the Manners and Customs of Polite Society, Factory-Girl Reclamation, Cardinal Newman, or the Art of Self-advertisement. He said, with an entire absence of pretension, that these things were not on his route.

When I announced our engagement the members of my family who were present, about seventeen of them, all swooned, except dear papa, who said in his highly-strung way that if I married anybody he would put the R.S.P.C.A. on to me.

I said what I thought, and fled for consolation to Casey, my married sister. But she also was discouraging.

“Marge,” she said, “give it a miss. You have a rich nature, beautiful hair, a knowledge of the world, nervous tension, some of the appearance of education, and four pound fifteen put by in the Post Office. You must look higher.”

I have always detested scenes—which, perhaps, seems strange in a girl as fond of the limelight as I was. I began to re-consider the question. Accidentally, I discovered that he had a wife already. What with one thing and another, I thought it best to write and give him up. He immediately resigned his appointment with the London General, gave me a long-priced certainty for the Oaks, and left for New York. When he returned, two years later, his hair was pale green.

But if the engagement did not come off, the certainty for the Oaks did. In consequence of this I left for Ramsgate by the “Marguerite” some days later. Dressed? Well, you should have seen me.

It chanced that one of the passengers on the boat was Mr. Aaron Birsch. He had been presented to me some weeks before by Mr. Bunting. I knew that he was a turf commissioner, had speculated with success in cottage property, and was commonly reported to be much richer than he looked. Beyond that, I know very little of him. Apparently, however, he had made it his business to know quite a good deal of me. Mr. Bunting was his informant, and I had always been a quite special favourite of the doyen of the Soles.

Mr. Birsch came up to me at once. We chatted on various topics, and he told me of something which was likely to be quite useful for Goodwood. Then he said suddenly:

“Matter of fact, there was a bit of private business I wanted a word with you about. This boat’s too full of what I call riff-raff. Mouth-organs. Bad taste. Can’t hear yourself speak. But we get an hour at Ramsgate, and if you’ll take a snack with me there, I can tell you what I’ve got to say.”

More from curiosity than from anything else, I accepted. And I must say that our luncheon conversation was rather remarkable.

He kindly consented, and we returned to the boat. However, on the way back the sea became very rough and unpleasant; and I threw up the idea.

(By the way, you don’t mind me writing the dialogue, as above, just as if it were a piece out of a play? I’ve always brought the sense of the theatre into real life.)

Poor Aaron Birsch! He was only one of the very many men who have been extremely anxious that I should marry somebody else. Two years later Alfred died of cerebral tumescence—a disease to which the ambitious are peculiarly liable. That cat, Millie Wyandotte, happened to say to Birsch that if I had married his son I should now have been a wealthy young widow.

“Anybody who married Marge,” said Birsch, “would not die at the end of two years.”

“I suppose not,” said Millie. “He’d be more likely to commit suicide at the end of one.”

I never did like that girl.

But I must speak now of what was perhaps my most serious engagement. Hugo Broke—his mother was one of the Stoneys—was intended from birth for one of the services and selected domestic service. Here it was thought that his height—he was seven foot one—would tell in his favour. However, the Duchess of Exminster, in ordering that the new footman should be dismissed, said that height was desirable, but that this was prolixity.

However, it was not long before he found a congenial sphere for his activities with the London branch of the Auto-extensor Co. of America. The Auto-extensor Co. addresses itself to the abbreviated editions of humanity. It is claimed for the Auto-extensor system that there is absolutely no limit to the increase in height which may be obtained by it, provided of course, that the system is followed exactly, that nothing happens to prevent it, and that the rain keeps off.

Hugo walked into the Regent Street establishment of the Auto-extensor people, and said:

“Good morning. I think I could be of some service to this company as an advertisement.”

“I am sure you could,” said the manager. “If you will kindly wait a moment while the boy fetches the step-ladder I will come up and arrange terms.”

In the result, the large window of the Regent Street establishment was furnished as a club smoking-room or thereabouts. In the very centre, in a chair of exaggerated comfort but doubtful taste, sat Hugo. He was exquisitely attired. He read a newspaper and smoked cigarettes. By his side, in a magnificent frame, was a printed notice, giving a rather fanciful biography of the exhibit.

“This gentleman,” the notice ran, “was once a dwarf. For years he suffered in consequence agonies of humiliation, and then a friend called his attention to the Auto-extensor System of increasing height. He did not have much faith in it, but in desperation he gave it a trial—and it made him what he now is. Look for yourselves. Facts speak louder than words. All we ask you to do is to trust the evidence of your own eyes.”

The window proved a great attraction. The crowd before it was most numerous about four o’clock, because every day at that hour a dramatic and exciting scene was witnessed. Putting down his newspaper, Hugo struck a bell on a little table by his side. A page entered through the excessively plush curtains at the back, and Hugo gave a brief and haughty order. The boy somewhat overacted respectful acquiescence, retired through the curtains, and reappeared again with tea and thin bread and butter. Of these delicacies Hugo partook coram populo. This carried conviction with it. One onlooker would say to another: “Shows you he’s real, don’t it? At one time I thought it was only a dummy.” And for some time afterwards the assistant in the shop would be kept busy, handing out the gratis explanatory booklet of the Auto-extensor Co.

It was in this window that I first saw Hugo. I arrived a little late that afternoon, and missed the first act, where he puts down the newspaper and rings the bell. But I saw the conclusion of the piece.

My eyes filled with tears. Here—here at last—I had met somebody whose chilled-steel endurance of publicity equalled, and perhaps exceeded, my own.

I entered the shop, procured the explanatory booklet, and asked at what hour they closed. At that hour I met him as he left business, and my first feelings were of disappointment. His clothes were not the exquisite raiment that he had worn as an exhibit in the window. The white spats, the sponge-bag trousers with the knife-edge crease, the gold-rimmed eye-glass, the well-cut morning coat, the too assertive waistcoat—all were the property of the Auto-extensor Co. and not to be worn out of business hours. He now wore a shabby tweed suit and a cap. But he was still a noticeable figure; a happy smile came into the faces of little boys as he went past.

“Like your job?” I said shyly, as I took the seat next to him on the top of the omnibus.

He replied rather gruffly that he supposed a bloke had to work for his living, and all work was work, whatever way you looked at it. Further questions elicited that the pay was satisfactory, but that he did not regard the situation as permanent. The public would get tired of it and some other form of advertisement would be found. He complained, too, that he was supposed to keep up the appearance of a wealthy toff smoking cigarettes continually for a period of seven hours, and the management provided only one small packet of woodbines per diem for him to do it on.

I produced my cigarette-case. It was one which Lord Baringstoke—always a careless man—had lost. It had been presented to me by dear Mr. Bunting. Hugo said he had not intended anything of that sort, but helped himself.

A quarter of an hour later we had our first quarrel. I asked him if it was cold up where he was. He said morosely that he had heard that joke on his stature a few times before. I told him that if he lived long enough—and I’d never seen anybody living much longer—he was likely to hear it a few times again. He then said that either I could hop off the ’bus or he would, and he didn’t care which. After that we both were rather rude. He got me by the hair, and I had just landed a straight left to the point when the conductor came up and said he would not have it.

I became engaged to Hugo that night at 10.41. I remember the time exactly, because Mrs. Pettifer had a rule that all her maids were to be in the house by ten sharp, and I was rather keeping an eye on my watch in consequence.

To tell the truth, we quarrelled very frequently. Different though we were in many respects, we both had irritable, overstrung, tri-chord natures, with hair-spring nerves connected direct to the high-explosive language-mine.

On one occasion I went with him to a paper fancy-dress dance at the rooms attached to the Hopley Arms. I went as “The Sunday Times,” my dress being composed of two copies of that excellent, though inexpensive journal, tastefully arranged on a concrete foundation.

When Millie Wyandotte saw me, she called out: “Hello, Marge! Got into the newspapers at last?” I shall be even with that girl one of these days.

I declined to dance with Hugo at all. I said frankly that I preferred to dance with somebody who could touch the top of my head without stooping. I went off with Georgie Leghorn, and Hugo sat and sulked.

Later in the evening he came up to me and asked if he should get my cloak.

I said irritably: “Of course not. Why should you?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, but you’ve got three split infinitives in your City article.”

“Ah!” I replied. “The next time Millie Wyandotte telephones up to your head, give her my love and tell her not to over-strain herself.”

Things went from bad to worse, and after he had alluded to my backbone as my Personal Column, any possibility of reconciliation seemed at an end. I did not know then what a terribly determined person Hugo was.

Georgie Leghorn saw me home. I parted with him at the house, let myself in by the area-gate, locking it after me, and so down the steps and into the kitchen.

There I had just taken off my hair when I heard a shrill whistle in the street outside. Hurriedly replacing my only beauty, I drew up the blind and looked out. There, up above me on the pavement, was Hugo, stretching away into the distance.

“Called for the reconciliation,” he said. “Just open this area gate, will you?”

“At this time of night?” I called, in a tense whisper. “Certainly not.”

He stepped back, and in one leap jumped over the area-railings and down on to the window-sill of the kitchen. The next moment he had flung the window up, entered, and stood beside me.

“What do you think of that?” he said calmly.

“Hugo,” I said, “I’ve known some bounders in my time, but not one who could have done that.”

We sat down and began discussing the Disestablishment of the Welsh Church, when suddenly the area-gate was rattled and a stern voice outside said “Police.”

Instantly, Hugo concealed as much of himself as he could under the kitchen table. There was no help for it. I had to let the policeman in, or he would have roused the household.

“I’m just going to have a look in your kitchen,” he said.

“No use,” I replied. “The rabbit-pie was finished yesterday.”

“Saucy puss, ain’t you?” he said, as he entered.

“Well, you might be a sport and tell a girl what you’re after.”

“Cabman, driving past here a few minutes ago, saw a man jump the area-railings and make a burglarious entry by the kitchen window.”

“Is that all?” I said. “A man did enter that way a few minutes ago, but it was not a burglar. It was Master Edward, Mrs. Pettifer’s eldest son. He’d lost his latch-key—he’s always doing it—and that’s how it happened. He went straight upstairs to bed, or he’d confirm what I say.”

“Went straight up to bed, did he? Did he take his legs off first? I notice there’s a pair of them sticking out from under the kitchen table.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I’ve told better lies in my time. Oh, Mr. Policeman, don’t be hard. I never wanted my young man to come larking about like this. But—he’s not a burglar. He’s the exhibit from the Auto-extensor Co.’s in Regent Street. You can pull out the rest of him and see if he isn’t.”

“That’s what I told the cabman,” said the policeman. “I said to him: ‘You juggins,’ I said, ‘do you think a burglar who wants to get into a house waits till a cab’s going past and then gives a acrobatic exhibition to attract the driver’s attention? That’s some young fool after one of the maids.’ No, I don’t want to see the rest of the young man—not if he’s like the sample. Get him unwound as soon as you can, and send him about his business. If he’s not out in two minutes, I shall ring the front door, and you’ll be in the cart. And don’t act so silly another time.”

Hugo was out in 1 min. 35 sec. He stopped to chat with the policeman, jumped the seven-foot railings into the square garden, and jumped back again, just to show what he could do, and went off.

I gave a long, deep sigh. I always do that when an incident in my life fails to reach the best autobiographical level. I neither knew nor cared what the policeman thought. You see, I would never deserve a bad reputation, but there’s nothing else I wouldn’t do to get one.

For eighty-four years—my memory for numbers is not absolutely accurate, but we will say eighty-four—for eighty-four years I wrote him a letter every morning and evening of every day, with the exception of Sundays, bank holidays, and the days when I did not feel like it.

But it was not to be. He was not without success in the circus which he subsequently joined, but he was improvident. His income increased in arithmetical progression, and his expenditure in geometrical. This, as Dr. Micawber and Professor Malthus have shown us, must end in disaster. Looking at it from the noblest point of view—the autobiographical—I saw that a marriage with Hugo would inevitably cramp my style.

And so the great sacrifice was made. Our feelings were so intense as we said farewell that my native reserve and reticence forbid me to describe them. But we parted one night in June, with a tear in the throat and a catch in the eye. As he strode from the park, I looked upward and saw in the brown crags above me some graceful animal silhouetted against an opal sky. I always have said that those Mappin Terraces were an improvement.