| Contents: |
|---|
| BROOKSMITH |
| THE REAL THING: I, II, III, IV |
| THE STORY OF IT: I, II, III |
| FLICKERBRIDGE: I, II, III, IV, V, VI |
| MRS. MEDWIN: I, II, III, IV |
We are scattered now, the friends of the late Mr. Oliver Offord; butwhenever we chance to meet I think we are conscious of a certainesoteric respect for each other. "Yes, you too have been in Arcadia," weseem not too grumpily to allow. When I pass the house in MansfieldStreet I remember that Arcadia was there. I don't know who has it now,and don't want to know; it's enough to be so sure that if I should ringthe bell there would be no such luck for me as that Brooksmith shouldopen the door. Mr. Offord, the most agreeable, the most attaching ofbachelors, was a retired diplomatist, living on his pension and onsomething of his own over and above; a good deal confined, by hisinfirmities, to his fireside and delighted to be found there anyafternoon in the year, from five o'clock on, by such visitors asBrooksmith allowed to come up. Brooksmith was his butler and his mostintimate friend, to whom we all stood, or I should say sat, in the samerelation in which the subject of the sovereign finds himself to theprime minister. By having been for years, in foreign lands, the mostdelightful Englishman any one had ever known, Mr. Offord had in myopinion rendered signal service to his country. But I suppose he hadbeen too much liked—liked even by those who didn't like IT—so that aspeople of that sort never get titles or dotations for the horrid thingsthey've NOT done, his principal reward was simply that we went to seehim.
Oh we went perpetually, and it was not our fault if he was notoverwhelmed with this particular honour. Any visitor who came once cameagain; to come merely once was a slight nobody, I'm sure, had ever putupon him. His circle therefore was essentially composed of habitués, whowere habitués for each other as well as for him, as those of a happysalon should be. I remember vividly every element of the place, down tothe intensely Londonish look of the grey opposite houses, in the gap ofthe white curtains of the high windows, and the exact spot where, on aparticular afternoon, I put down my tea-cup for Brooksmith, lingering aninstant, to gather it up as if he we