"I have several idiosyncrasies and failings, of which my master (_pro tem._) is trying to correct me, but finds it rather hard work, for I am not so easily brought out of them. I have a will of my own, but Sully says: 'Train up a dog in the way it should go, and he will not depart, &c., &c.'--and Sully is right.
"Don't you think it is a bad plan to wash me with soap? I think it deters me from licking my skin, and consequently from having those ideas of cleanliness engendered within me which are so necessary to every well-bred dog moving in good society!
"I want to get back to my bone, but Sully says I must first deliver a message from him. You are to give his love to your dear parents (in which I heartily join), and tell them how grieved he was that he did not see them to wish them 'God speed' before they left England, and how it hurt him to think that a long, long time would perhaps elapse before he should see them again.
"And now, my dear master, I must say 'Good-bye.' Much love in few words, in which Sully joins me.
And now I come to du Maurier's last letter--the best, as I am sure every right-minded person will admit. I have kept it "pour la bonne bouche" (excuse my quoting French. "Will me not of it," as our neighbours say; there are unassailable precedents for such quoting, you know--or ought to know). The letter in question speaks of an event so momentous, that of all events it is the one most worthy to "be marked with a white, white stone"; and marked it was, if not with a stone, with satins and laces and a veil and white orange blossoms.
"Come and be introduced to the future Mrs. Kicky," it said. "She intends to celebrate her 21st birthday by a small dance. There will be friends and pretty girls, 'en veux tu, en violà.' So rek-lect, olf'lah, Tuesday, at half-past seven."
The drawing shows how I was introduced, and how graciously I was received.
The letter needs a word of explanation, as it speaks of the "future Mrs. 'Kicky,'" and I have not yet mentioned that Kicky was but another name for du Maurier. He got it at an early period of his life. Just as any other baby less favoured by "Dame Fortune the witch" would have done, he gave himself his nickname. He picked it up in Brussels when he was two years old, and under the care of Flemish servants. They called him "Mannekin" (little man), and that he converted into "Kicky." I append one of the numerous varieties of his signature.