literature, was telling with great unction of his success. He told how his recent book had been translated not only into French, Italian, Spanish, but even into a Dutch dialect. My husband, flicking the ash from a cigarette, said in a very urbane voice: "That is very interesting. I dare say then it will soon be translated into English."
In speaking, too, while his notes were scanty, in fact mere headings, he always thought out beforehand both the matter and form. As he put it, he favoured "carefully prepared impromptus."
Friends will remember him at his best as a conversationalist. As a raconteur he was inimitable, and, as a critic says, "It was not so much the point of his tale that counted. The divagations from the text in which he loved to indulge were the delight of his auditors." "What Doctor Johnson said of Burke," observes another critic, "was essentially true of Kettle, 'that you could not have stood under an archway in his company to escape a passing shower without realising that he was a great man.'"
He had the literary man's constitutional distaste for writing or answering letters. A friend once said chaffingly to him that he might write "The Life and Letters of T. M. Kettle." "Well," retorted Tom, "you may write my life, but there won't be any letters, for I never write any." He was also unpunctual in keeping appointments, and finding the telephone very useful, he said it should
