fro any party of his. How he'd never forgive himself, who'd been there and back, if he were even merely the glancing, proximate cause of—never _mind_ actually killing him or her—putting a person in his educational charge into a cast or brace for so much as a week or even a day, an hour, even a minute. He was sorry, he'd tell her, it was just the way he was. I am what I am. He is what he is. And if that was the bedrock bottom line of why Mrs. Professor S. left Mr. Professor S., well then, so be it, the leopard couldn't change its spots or the doggie its growl. One was stuck with oneself. The world had too few competent political geographers as itpapers, on the telly and the oh-so-civilized BBC 3 even?—it may almost be my patriotic duty to let it know some of the real circumstances by which it is ruled. La Lulu, indeed!

"Oh yeah," you're saying, "for God and Country, for England and St. George." "Hell hath no fury," you're saying, "like a woman scorned." "Or tattood!" you're saying.

We met, as everyone knows, in Cape Henry, on the westermost of the Lothian Islands, fifty or so nautical miles from Santa Catalina Island and the village of Avalon, themselves about a thirty-minute ferry ride from Los Angeles and the southwest coast of California.

Whatever you might have read in the press to the contrary, I was not at that time in any way connected with the Ministry of Tourism; I