At Bateman's Burwash, Sussex, a man of three score years and one packed his bags last week and journeyed in to London. One more honor was to be thrust upon him. Once more he must don garments in which he seems a bent and spectacled waiter whose mustaches droop. When he should stand up before the Royal Society of Literature to receive its gold medal, many a critical eye would be upon him. Dean Inge would certainly make some acidulous remark next day. Lord Darling might crack a senile quip upon the spot....
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
