Maring and Staple. But his experience only confirmed his theory that one essential condition of a civilized existence is a small independent income of-say-three thousand a year. He was beginning to consider that twelve hundred might be just tolerable.

That was in the summer of 1914. The outbreak of war came just in time to save Basil from the humiliation of his father's request to Lord Herringdale that he should overlook all earlier indiscretions and continue to pay his son's bills at Oxford. Basil was able to step into the post of private secretary to old Lord Farndale, vacated by a more commonplace and robust young man who had joined the army. There, until 1916, he remained, but the catastrophes of international war made civilized living impossible, and the inconvenience of Philistine disapproval outweighed the horror of military discipline. In 1916 Basil responded to the Call of King and Country.

He looked delightful in uniform. The crudity of army life distressed him, but he was fortunate enough to be sent as a cadet to Balliol and to find in war-time Oxford several congenial companions. When he was finally gazetted as a second lieutenant, his fastidious charm, his delicacy, and his taste were uncorrupted. Then he was sent to France.

Nobody ever knew exactly in what degree the war affected Basil. It was presumably a nightmare which on awakening he was unable to describe. In 1918 he appeared at a hospital in Carlton House Terrace with a shattered elbow. He spent the subsequent two years in tedious alternations between the operating theatre and convalescent homes. In 1920 he left the army with a stiff arm, a disillusioned though still charming manner, and the pension proper to second lieutenants suffering from partial disablement.

He returned for a time to the Rectory in Devonshire, and lay on soft but badly tended lawns or on the faded Morris chintzes of his mother's sofas. He read; he smoked cigarettes; he composed epigrams which he felt too fatigued to utter. But the boredom of country life, the inadequacy of the hot-water supply, and the monotony of his mother's catering drove him back to London.

'But what are you going to do, my dear boy?' asked the Rector.

'Well, man cher papa.' Basil smiled his charming melancholy smile. 'What can a fellow do?'

There were, it appeared, a number of things that a fellow could, and did, do. Basil's acquaintances enlightened him as to the possibilities of employment in London. He could sell cars on commission, or trade in first editions, or advise newly created peeresses about the decoration of their country seats, or write occasional reviews for the Epicurean. But the Epicurean survived only six issues after its first appearance; the cars betrayed inexpert salesmanship, and the peeresses had their own preposterous notions about interior decoration.

An optimistic young gentleman called Wing Stretton, whom Basil had met in hospital, formed a syndicate at Monte Carlo for playing roulette according to a co-operative system, which he thought infallible. Once, in an expansive mood, he asked Basil to come out as secretary to the Syndicate. Basil remembered his offer when, in 1923, he had his final interview with Lord Herringdale.

'I like you. Damn it, I like you,' declared that much-tried nobleman. 'But what with the country going to the dogs and the Government taxing us out of house and home, I can do no more for you, young man. Why don't you emigrate? Emigration. That's the stuff for you younger men. Go abroad. Start afresh. This old country's overcrowded. Take my advice.'

Basil took his advice.