seven o'clock in the evening of September 23
I HAVE read of men who , when forced by their calling to live for long periods in utter solitude -- save for a few black faces -- have made it a rule to dress regularly for dinner in order to maintain their self-respect and prevent a relapse into barbarism . It was in some such spirit , with an added touch of self-consciousness , that , at seven o'clock in the evening of September 23 in a recent year , I was making my evening toilet in my chambers in Pall Mall . I thought the date and the place justified the parallel ; to my advantage even ; for the obscure Burmese administrator might well be a man of blunted sensibilities and coarse fibre , and at least he is alone with nature , while I -- well , a young man of condition and fashion , who knows the right people , belongs to the right clubs , has a safe , possibly a brilliant , future in the Foreign Office -- may be excused for a sense of complacent martyrdom , when , with his keen appreciation of the social calendar , he is doomed to the outer solitude of London in September . I say ` martyrdom ' , but in fact the case was infinitely worse . For to feel oneself a martyr , as everybody knows , is a pleasurable thing , and the true tragedy of my position was that I had passed that stage .