ABSTRACT
Me and my clippings on W. G. Grace, Victor Trumper and Ranjitisinhji, and my Vanity Fair and my puritanical view of the world. I look back at the little eccentric and would have liked to have listened to him, nod affirmatively and pat him on the shoulder. A British intellectual long before I was ten, already an alien in my own environment among my own people, even my own family. Somehow from around me I had selected and fastened on to the things that made a whole. As will soon appear, to that little boy I owe a debt of gratitude.
