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I celebrated my fortieth birthday by putting on one of the amateur theatrical performances for which my house at Beckenham is famous.
The play, written by myself, was in three acts, and an important feature was the sound of a horn in the second act.
I had engaged a horn player to blow the horn. He was to place himself, not on the stage, but downstairs in the hall so as to make it sound distant.
The best seat was occupied by the beautiful Linda Fitznightingale. The next chair, which I had intended for myself, had been taken by Mr Porcharlester, a young man of some musical talent.
As Linda loved music, Porcharlester's talent gave him in her eyes an advantage over older and cleverer men. I decided to break up their conversation as soon as I could.
After I had seen that everything was all right for the performance, I hurried to Linda's side with an apology for my long absence. As I approached, Porcharlester rose, saying "I'm going behind the stage if you don't mind."
