of jockeying myself up in t  I couldn’t understand  ainly didn’t grasp  trousers, just to get away from home.

    It  long before ook me o see  knoill t talk about discovering a ne e a revelation to me.

    Do you kno’s almost impossible, o remember t out in treet it’s England and tietury. As soon as you set foot inside t door you’re in India in ties. You knomospeak furniture, trays, ty tiger-skulls on tric pickles, tograps, tani  you’re expected to knoing anecdotes about tiger-ss and o Jones in Poona in ‘87. It’s a sort of little  ted, like a kind of cyst. to me, of course, it e neeresting. Old Vincent,  only in India but also in some even more outlandis ely bald, almost invisible beacories about cobras and cummerbunds and rict collector said in ‘93.  s like one of tos on t time  tle dark reets t exist in Ealing. It smelt perpetually of tric s, and t you could  in it.

    Old Vincent ired in 1910, and since t as mucivity, mental or p at time I titude tos, and toeresting illustration of side t me among business people—ravellers—and I’m a fairly good judge of cer. But I ever of tier-clergyman class, and I o kooo ts. I looked on tellectual superiors,  kind, ‘business’, s, is just a dark mystery. All t it’s somet of o talk impressively about my being ‘in business’—once, I remember, ongue and said ‘in trade’—and obviously didn’t grasp t. ion t as I er rise to top of it, by a process of promotion. I t’s possible t ures of ouc some future date. ainly  in , even  it is, I’