As may be imagined,
repasts chosen in this fashion were apt to be somewhat incongruous.
After the first decision of chance, Cecil would murmur to the patient
waiter, "Some apple-tart to begin with, Charles." Then another whirl,
and "some stuffed tomatoes," a third whirl, and "salt fish and
parsnips, Charles, please. It's a thing that I positively detest, but
it has been chosen for me, so bring it." Cecil went for an annual
summer holiday to France, but as he could never decide where he should
go, the same method came into play, and with a map of France before
him, and tightly closed eyes, the whirling pencil determined his
destination for him. He assured me that it had selected some unknown
but most delightful spots for him, though at times he was less
fortunate. The pencil once lit on the mining districts of Northern
France, and Cecil with his sunny nature professed himself grateful for
this, declaring that but for the hazard of the whirling pencil, he
would never have had an opportunity of realising what unspeakably
revolting spots Saletrousur-Somme, or Saint-Andre-Linfecte were. He
was a wonderfully kind-hearted man. Once, whilst playing at the Court
Theatre, he noticed the call-boy constantly poring over a book.
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