The Man in the Brown Suit

party. He chaffed me at length about keeping a diary.
“It will reveal all your indiscretions one of these days, Pedler.”
“My dear Race,” I said, “I venture to suggest that I am not quite the fool you think me.
I may commit indiscretions, but I don’t write them down in black and white. After my
death, my executors will know my opinion of a great many people, but I doubt if they will
find anything to add or detract from their opinion of 
me.
 A diary is useful for recording
the idiosyncrasies of other people—but not one’s own.”
“There is such a thing as unconscious self-revelation, though.”
“In the eyes of the psychoanalyst, all things are vile,” I replied sententiously.
“You must have had a very interesting life, Colonel Race?” said Miss Beddingfeld,

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gazing at him with wide, starry eyes.
That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by telling her stories,
but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by the way she listened?
Anyway, the girl set Race off all right. He began to tell lion stories. A man who has
shot lions in large quantities has an unfair advantage over other men. It seemed to me
that it was time I, too, told a lion story. One of a more sprightly character.
“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting tale I heard. A friend
of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere in East Africa. One night he came out of
his tent for some reason, and was startled by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a
lion crouching to spring. He had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as thought, he ducked,
and the lion sprang right over his head. Annoyed at having missed him, the animal
growled and prepared to spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion sprang right
over him. This happened a third time, but by now he was close to the entrance of his tent,
and he darted in and seized his rifle. When he emerged, rifle in hand, the lion had
disappeared. That puzzled him greatly. He crept round the back of the tent, where there
was a little clearing. There, sure enough, was the lion, busily practising low jumps.”
This was received by a roar of applause. I drank some champagne.
“On another occasion,” I remarked, “this friend of mine had a second curious
experience. He was trekking across country, and being anxious to arrive at his
destination before the heat of the day he ordered his boys to inspan whilst it was still
dark. They had some trouble in doing so, as the mules were very restive, but at last they
managed it, and a start was made. The mules raced along like the wind, and when
daylight came they saw why. In the darkness, the boys had inspanned a lion as the near
wheeler.”
This, too, was well-received, a ripple of merriment going round the table, but I am not
sure that the greatest tribute did not come from my friend the Labour Member, who
remained pale and serious.
“My God!” he said anxiously. “Who un’arnessed them?”
“I must go to Rhodesia,” said Mrs. Blair. “After what you have told us, Colonel Race,
I simply must. It’s a horrible journey though, five days in the train.”
“You must join me in my private car,” I said gallantly.
“Oh, Sir Eustace, how sweet of you! Do you really mean it?”
“Do I mean it!” I exclaimed reproachfully, and drank another glass of champagne.
“Just about another week, and we shall be in South Africa,” sighed Mrs. Blair.
“Ah, South Africa,” I said sentimentally, and began to quote from a recent speech of

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