London, of course, was hell: it gets worse every day. I pine for the slow, placid, pastoral way of life they still enjoy in New York. Leaving my bag at the Connaught I pottered about until luncheon, having a chat with a shirt-maker here, a haberdasher there and a bootmaker in t’other place. Then I refreshed myself with oysters at a place whose name I shall not tell you, for I do not wish you to go there: you would not like it and there is barely enough room for me.

When it was time to call on Lord Dunromin I made my way to his club, which is one of those ancient, hateful clubs called Bogg’s or Crutt’s or Frigg’s – you know the sort of thing. This particular sink, known to other clubmen as the ‘Senior Lechers’, is a bad place. Members must be old, contemptuous, well-born but spurned by decent society, and expensively dressed in quiet bad taste.

The club porter flicked an eye over my clothes, glanced at the label inside my hat and admitted that the Earl was in the Smoking Room and might well be expecting me. Did I know where the Smoking Room was? I looked at him stonily – I’ve been squashed by experts. He led me to the Smoking Room.

The Earl didn’t get up. He has been the wickedest man in England for years: he now hopes to be the rudest, too. The All-England selectors have long had their corporate eye on him. He looked at my clothes. The two-second glance contrived to embody genuine embarrassment, suppressed amusement and feigned compassion. It was well done; he was in a different league from the hall-porter. I didn’t wait to be asked, I sat down.

‘How do you do?’ I said.

‘Oink,’ he replied.

This brought a waiter. Lord Dunromin loudly ordered ‘a glass of the cheese port’ for me, while pouring himself something from a decanter at his elbow.

He turned to the window to sneer at a passing omnibus. I studied him. His face was a shade or two darker than my port, a shade or two paler than his. Viewed through my glass, his features became quite black, only the eyes gleaming redly.

‘Well,’ he said at last, rounding on me, ‘are you going to interview me or not?’

This threw me somewhat, but it seemed a small thing to do if it would give him pleasure.

‘Of course. Sorry. Now, how long have you considered yourself to be the wickedest man in England?’ I asked.

‘Europe. And I don’t like that word “considered”. And, since I was fifteen. Sacked from all three Public Schools, both Universities, four clubs and the Foreign Office.’

‘My word. And to what do you attribute your success?’

‘Lust. What they call sex nowadays. Workin’ me wicked will on school matrons, housemaids, chaps’ wives, daughters; that sort of thing.’