with the most glorious golden
hair. It was a whim of the management, he said.

So, of course, we went.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TWELVE GOLDEN-HAIRED BAR-MAIDS.

Now it was not without some boyish nervousness that I followed my newly
made friend, for I confess that I have ever been a poor hand at talking
to bar-maids. It is, I am convinced, an art apart, an art like any
other,--needing first the natural gift, then the long patient training,
and finally the courageous practice. Alas for me, I possessed neither
gift, training, nor courage. Courage I lacked most of all. It was in
vain that I said to myself that it was like swimming,--all that was
needed was "confidence." That was the very thing I couldn't muster. No
doubt I am handicapped by a certain respectful homage which I always
feel involuntarily to any one in the shape of woman, for anything
savouring of respect is the last thing to win the bar-maid heart
divine. The man to win her is he who calls loudly for his drink,
without a "Please" or a "Thank you," throws his hat at the back of his
head, gulps down half his glass, and, while drawing breath for the
other half, takes a hard, indifferent look at her, and in an off-hand
voice throws her some fatuous, mirthless jest.

Now, I've never been able to do this in the convincing grand manner of
the British male; and whatever I have said, the effect has been the
same. I've talked about theatres and music-halls, of events of the
day, I've even--Heaven help me--talked of racing and football, but I
might as well have talked of Herbert Spencer. I suppose I didn't talk
about them in the right way. I'm sure it must be my fault somewhere,
for certainly they seem easy enough to please, poor things! However, my
failure remains, and sometimes even I find it extremely hard to attract
their attention in the ordinary way of business. I don't mind my
neighbour being preferred before me, but I do object to his being
served before me!

So, I say, I couldn't but tremble at the vision of those golden-haired
goddesses, standing with immobile faces by their awful altars. Indeed,
had I realised how superbly impressive they were going to be, I think I
must have declined the adventure altogether,--for, robed in lustrous
ivory-white linen were those figures of undress marble, the wealth of
their glorious bodies pressing out into bosoms magnificent as magnolias
(nobler lines and curves Greece herself has never known), towering in
t