“I am,” I said.

“You think you can manage it?”

“Look,” I said. “At the tender age of seventeen I had no trouble whatsoever in selling red pills to the French foreign minister, to a dozen ambassadors, and to just about every big shot in Paris. And just recently I have successfully sold Lady Victoria Nottingham to all the crowned heads of Europe bar one.”

“I did that,” Yasmin said. “Not you.”

“Oh no you didn’t,” I said. “King George’s letter did the selling and that was my idea. So you don’t seriously think I’m going to have any trouble selling the seeds of genius to a bunch of rich females, do you?”

“Perhaps not,” Woresley said.

“And by the way,” I said, “if I’m the one who does all the selling, I think I ought to be entitled to a bigger cut of the profits.”

“Hey!” Yasmin cried. “Now you just stop that, Oswald!”

“The agreement was equal shares all round,” Woresley said, looking hostile.

“Calm down,” I said. “I was only joking.”

“I should damn well hope so,” Yasmin said.

“As a matter of fact, I think Arthur should have the major share because he invented the whole process,” I said.

“Well, I must say that’s very generous of you, Cornelius,” Woresley said, beaming.

“Forty per cent to the inventor and thirty per cent each to Yasmin and me,” I said. “Would you agree to that, Yasmin?”

“I’m not sure I would,” she said. “I’ve worked damn hard on this. I want my one-third.”

What neither of them knew was that I had long since decided that I myself was the one who would take the major share in the end. Yasmin, after all, would never need very much. She liked to dress well and to eat good food, but that was about as far as it went. As for old Woresley, I doubted whether he’d know what to do with a large sum of money even if he had it. Pipe tobacco was about the only luxury he ever permitted himself. But I was different. The style of living to which I aspired made it absolutely necessary that I have a fortune at my fingertips. It was impossible for me to tolerate indifferent champagne or mild discomfort of any sort. The way I looked at it, the best— and by that I mean only the very best—was not nearly good enough for me.

I figured that if I gave them ten per cent each and took eighty for myself, then they ought to be happy. They would scream blue murder at first, but when they realized there was nothing they could do about it, they would soon settle down and be grateful for small mercies. Now there was of course only one way in which I could put myself in the position of being able to dictate terms to the other two. I must get possession of The Semen’s Home and all the treasures it contained. Then I must move it to a safe and secret place where neither of them could reach it. That would not be difficult. As soon as Yasmin and I had returned from America, I would hire a removal van and drive up to Dunroamin when the place was empty and make off with the precious treasure chest.

No problem.

But a bit of a dirty trick, some of you may be thinking? A bit caddish?

Rubbish, I say. You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you grab your opportunities. Charity has never begun at home. Not in my home, anyway.

“So when will you two be going to America?” A. R. Woresley asked us.

I got out my diary. “One month from now will be Saturday, the fifteenth of May,” I said. “How’s that with you, Yasmin?”

“The fifteenth of May,” she said, taking her own diary from her purse. “That seems all right. I’ll meet you here on the fifteenth. In four weeks’ time.”

“And I’ll book cabins on the Mauretania for as soon as possible after that.”

“Fine,” she said, writing the date in her diary.

“Then we’ll collar old Henry Ford and Mr. Marconi and Rudolph Valentino and all the other Yanks.”

“Don’t forget Alexander Graham Bell,” Woresley said.

“We’ll get the lot,” I said. “After a month’s rest, the old girl will be roaring to go again, you see if she isn’t.”

“Hope so,” Yasmin said. “But I do need a rest, honestly I do.”

“Where will you go?”

“Up to Scotland to stay with an uncle.”

“Nice uncle?”

“Very,” she said. “My father’s brother. He fishes for salmon.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Right now,” she said. “My train goes in about an hour. Will you take me to the station?”

“Of course I will,” I said. “I myself am off to London.” I drove Yasmin to the station and helped her into the waiting-room with her bags. “See you in exactly a month,” I said. “At Dunroamin.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

“Have good hols.”

“Same to you, Oswald.”

I kissed her farewell and drove down to London. I went straight to my house in Kensington Square. I was feeling good. The great scheme was actually coming to pass. I could see myself in about five years’ time sitting with some silly rich female and her saying to me, “I rather fancy Renoir, Mr. Cornelius. I do so adore his pictures. How much does he cost?”

“Renoir is seventy-five thousand, madam.”

“And how much is a king?”

“That depends which one.”

“This one here. The dark good-looking one—King Alfonso of Spain.”

“King Alfonso is forty thousand dollars, madam.”

“You mean he’s less than Renoir?”

“Renoir was a greater man, madam. His sperm is exceedingly rare.”

“What happens if it doesn’t work, Mr. Cornelius? I mean if I don’t become pregnant?”

“You get a free go.”

“And who would actually perform the insemination?”

“A senior gynaecologist, madam. It would all be most carefully planned.”

“And my husband would never find out?”

“How could he? He’d think he’d done it himself.”

“I suppose he would, wouldn’t he?” She giggles.

“Bound to, madam.”

“It would be rather nice to have a child by the King of Spain, wouldn’t it?”

“Have you considered Bulgaria, madam? Bulgaria is a bargain at twenty thousand.”

“I don’t want a Bulgar brat, Mr. Cornelius, even if he is royal.”

“I quite understand, madam.”

“And then of course there’s Mr. Puccini. La Bohème is absolutely my favourite opera. How much is Mr. Puccini?”

“Giacomo Puccini is sixty-seven thousand five hundred, madam. He is strongly recommended. The child would almost certainly be a musical genius.”

“I play the piano a bit myself.”

“That would help the baby’s chances enormously.”

“I expect it would, woudn’t it?”

“Confidentially, madam, I can tell you that a certain lady in Dallas, Texas, had a Puccini boy three years ago and the child has already composed his first opera.”

“You don’t say.”

“Thrilling, isn’t it?”

I was going to have a lot of fun once the selling started. But right now I had before me one whole month in which to do nothing except enjoy myself. I decided to remain in London. I’d have a real fling. I deserved it. Throughout most of the winter I’d been chasing after kings all over Europe and the time had come for some serious wenching.

And what wenching it was. I went on a proper bender. For three weeks out of the four, I had a glorious time (see Vol. III). Then suddenly, at the beginning of the fourth and final week of my vacation, when I was really in full blood and churning the ladies of London to such purpose you could hear the bones rattling all over Mayfair, a devilish incident occurred that put an immediate stopper on all my activities. Terrible it was. Diabolical. Even to think about it at this distance causes me sharp physical pain. Nonetheless, I feel I ought to describe this sordid episode in the hope that it may save a few other sportsmen from a similar catastrophe.

I do not usually sit in the bathtub at the wrong end with my back to the taps. Few people do. But on this particular afternoon, the other end, the comfortable slopey end, was occupied by a saucy little imp who possessed hyperactive carnal proclivities. That’s why she was there. The fact that she happened also to be an English duchess is not entirely beside the point either. Had I been a few years older, I would have known what to expect from a female of high rank, and I’d have been a good deal less careless. Most of these women have acquired their titles by ensnaring some poor benighted peer or duke, and it takes a very special kind of mendacity and guile to succeed at that game. To become a duchess you must be a prime manipulator of men. I have tangled with a fair number of them in my time and they’re all alike. Marchionesses and countesses are not quite so ghoulish, but they run the duchess a close second. Daily with them by all means. It is a piquant experience. But for heaven’s sake keep your wits about you while you’re at it. You never know, you positively never can tell when they’re going to turn and bite the hand that strokes them. Watch out, I say, for the female with a grand title.