Say what you will, there is something fine about our old aristocracy. I'll bet Trotsky couldn't hit a moving secretary with an egg on a dark night.

I always strive, when I can, to spread sweetness and light. There have been several complaints about it.

Beginning with a critique of my own limbs, which she said, justly enough, were nothing to write home about, this girl went on to dissect my manners, morals, intellect, general physique, and method of eating asparagus with such acerbity that by the time she had finished the best you could say of Bertram was that, so far as was known, he had never actually committed murder or set fire to an orphan asylum.

Intoxicated? The word did not express it by a mile. He was oiled, boiled, fried, plastered, whiffled, sozzled, and blotto.

Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.

It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.

He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers--the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.