then dad would miss something and remember me. Then there would come a telegram saying, ‘Where’s that kid of mine? Send him on by the eleven-thirty to-night with my clothes.’ And often I would be roused out of bed and taken to a train and sent off to some town where, as likely as not, my father would forget to meet me in the morning. I was frequently lost. Once it was quite serious. That was in Africa. An Englishman found me asleep in a station in the early morning. He watched me a while and then woke me, and I told him my father was supposed to be there sometime. But I must have looked frightened or something, for he took charge of me, took me to breakfast and waited round with me all the morning. Then as dad never turned up, he left word at the station and took me off to his hotel. It took him three weeks to trace my casual parent who had been on a spree and in an accident. When he finally came there was a scene. The Englishman wanted to adopt me. He had had a boy who died. He was a huge chap, jolly and friendly. But my strange father had some queer affection of his own for me. He was always glad to find me again. He had an inextinguishable faith in the world’s goodness to me. He always knew I would turn up, and I always did turn up. It was a tribute to his extraordinary personality and to the fact that he always paid his debts, that I was invariably given money and shipped along with his tooth-brush and the things he continually left behind. The only thing I ever quarrelled with him about was the stage. He wanted me to go on it, and trained me for it. But I could not stand it. I could not stand the women. And I wanted to write poetry. We had some trying arguments about it. But I was only eighteen when he died.”
Dane took up his pipe again and refilled it.
“What did you do then?”
