Just to show the sort of thing one has to put up with in life, take the writing of this book as an instance. It was getting along splendidly. Chapter after chapter was piled up; the commonplaces of everyday life lay delicately unclothed upon the pages. All the neighbours--everybody’s neighbours--were there, pinned down like butterflies; their beauties and their bulgy eyes and their great number of legs ready for the inspection of the public. It is not every one who is quick enough to get a good look at butterflies and moths when they are flitting about, so it is best to keep them somewhere where we can get at them any time we like. But there was no difficulty in all this. The trouble was wi…
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