the reading of a love story completely cured me of the bad habit of self-abuse.
Naturally after this first divine experience, I was on edge for a second and keen as a questing hawk. I could not see E till the next music-lesson, a week to wait; but even such a week comes to an end, and once more we were imprisoned in our solitude behind the piano; but though I whispered all the sweet and pleading words I could imagine, E . . . . did nothing but frown refusal and shake her pretty head. This killed for the moment all my faith in girls: why did she act so? I puzzled my brain for a reasonable answer and found none. It was part of the damned inscrutability of girls but at the moment it filled me with furious anger. I was savage with disappointment.
"You're mean!" I whispered to her at long last and I would have said more if the organist hadn't called on me for a solo which I sang very badly, so badly indeed that he made me come from behind the piano and thus abolished even the chance of future intimacies. Time and again I cursed organist and girl, but I was always on the alert for a similar experience. As dog fanciers say of hunting dogs, "I had tasted blood and could never afterwards forget the scent of it."
Twenty-five years or more later, I dined with Frederic Chapman, the publisher of "The Fortnightly Review", which I was then editing; he asked me some weeks afterwards had I noticed a lady and described her dress to me, adding, "She was very curious about you. As soon as you came into the room she recognized you and has asked me to tell her if you recognized her; did you?"
I shook my head: "I'm near-sighted, you know",
