London that historic summer was almost unbearably hot. It seems, looking
back, as though the big baking city in those days was meant to serve as
an anteroom of torture--an inadequate bit of preparation for the
hell that was soon to break in the guise of the Great War. About the
soda-water bar in the drug store near the Hotel Cecil many American
tourists found solace in the sirups and creams of home. Through the
open windows of the Piccadilly tea shops you might catch glimpses of
the English consuming quarts of hot tea in order to become cool. It is a
paradox they swear by.
About nine o'clock on the morning of Friday, July twenty-fourth, in that
memorable year nineteen hundred and fourteen, Geoffrey West left his
apartments in Adelphi Terrace and set out for breakfast at the Carlton.
He had found the breakfast room of that dignified hotel the coolest
in London, and through some miracle, for the season had passed,
strawberries might still be had there. As he took his way through the
crowded Strand, surrounded on all sides by honest British faces wet
with honest British perspiration he thought longingly of his rooms in
Washington Square, New York. For West, despite the English sound of that
Geoffrey, was as American as Kansas, his native state, and only pressing
business was at that moment holding him in England, far from the country
that glowed unusually rosy because of its remoteness.
At the Carlton news stand West bought two morning papers--the Times
for study and the Mail for entertainment and then passed on into the
restaurant. His waiter--a tall soldierly Prussian, more blond than West
himself--saw him coming and, with a nod and a mechanical German smile,
set out for the plate of strawberries which he knew would be the first
thing desired by the American. West seated himself at his usual table
and, spreading out the Daily Mail, sought his favorite column. The first
item in that column brought a delighted smile to his face: "The one who calls me Dearest is not genuine or they would write to me."
Any one at all familiar with English journalism will recognize at once
what department it was that appealed most to West. During his three
weeks in London he had been following, with the keenest joy, the daily
grist of Personal Notices in the Mail. This string of intimate
messages, popularly known as the Agony Column, has long been an honored
institution in the English press. In the days of Sherlock Holmes it
was in the Times that it flourished, and many a criminal was tracked
to earth after he had inserted some alluring mysterious message in it.
Later the Telegraph gave it room; but, with the advent of halfpenny
journalism, the simple souls moved en masse to the Mail.