We were, if I remember rightly, discussing supralapsarianism, when a Whisky-and- Splash, who had been turning the pages of the Saturday Evening Post, the property of our courteous and popular barmaid Miss Postlethwaite, uttered a snort. "Gesundheit," said a Draught Ale. "I wasn't sneezing, I was snorting," said the Whisky-and-Splash. Disgustedly, he added. "Why do they publish these things?" "What things would that be?" "These stories, illustrated in glorious technicolour, where the fellow meets the girl on the beach, and they start kidding back and forth, and twenty minutes after they've seen each other for the first time, they're engaged to be married." Mr. Mulliner took a sip from his hot Scotch and lemon. "You find that unconvincing?" "Yes, I do. I am a married man, and it took me two years and more boxes of chocolates than I care to think of to persuade the lady who is now my wife to sign on the dotted line. And though it is not for me to say so, I was a pretty fascinating chap in those days.
