You see, I thought that disaster had to happen eventually. This was the serious side, the sober side, yes, the tragic side, of a situation which would otherwise have been completely ridiculous. In the dark of the night, the tragedy part was always in my mind. It was always warning and always worrying me and so I moaned and turned around in my bed, and sleep was hard to find. But in the cheerful daylight the tragedy disappeared, and I walked on air. I was so happy that I felt almost drunk with it.

You can't blame me for being happy. I had become rather well-known in the biggest city in the world. This stopped me from thinking clearly about things. You could not buy a newspaper, English, Scottish, or Irish, without reading one or more stories about the 'vest-pocket million-pounder' and things I had done or said.

At first, when the newspapers mentioned me, I was at the bottom of the gossip column. Next, I was listed above the lower aristocracy, and next above the barons. It went on and on. As my reputation increased I was mentioned earlier and earlier in the gossip column, until I reached as high as it was possible to go. There I stayed, being mentioned above all aristocrats but the royal family, and above all churchmen apart from the top one in all England. But I knew that although I was well-known, I had not earned my fame.