IT has been a curious evening.
The only costume that fitted me in the barber's emporium was that of a Teddy Bear. I don't mind playing bears with some nice young girls on a winter's evening in England—but it's hardly an ideal costume for the equator. However, I created a good deal of merriment, and won first prize for "brought on board"—an absurd term for a costume hired for the evening. Still as nobody seemed to have the least idea whether they were made or brought, it didn't matter.
Mrs. Blair refused to dress up. Apparently she is at one with Pagett on the matter. Colonel Race followed her example. Anne Beddingfeld had concocted a gipsy costume for herself, and looked extraordinarily well. Pagett said he had a headache and didn't appear. To replace him I asked a quaint little fellow called Reeves. He's a prominent member of the South African Labour party. Horrible little man, but I want to keep in with him, as he gives me information that I need. I want to understand this Rand business from both sides.
Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and she had to pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs. Blair, who didn't trouble to pretend, and I victimized various other damsels whose appearance struck me favourably.
Then we went down to supper. I had ordered champagne; the steward suggested Clicquot 1911 as being the best they had on the boat and I fell in with his suggestion. I seemed to have hit on the one thing that would loosen
