WHEN I first saw him, he was lost in one of the Dead Cities of England-situated on the South Coast, and called Sandwich. Shall I describe Sandwich? I think not. Let us own the truth; descriptions of places, however nicely they may be written, are always more or less dull. Being a woman, I naturally hate dullness. Perhaps some description of Sandwich may drop out, as it were, from my report of our conversation when we first met as strangers in the street. He began irritably. "I've lost myself," he said. "People who don't know the town often do that," I remarked. He went on: "Which is my way to the Fleur de Lys Inn?" His way was, in the first place, to retrace his steps. Then to turn to the left. Then to go on until he found two streets meeting. Then to take the street on the right. Then to look out for the second turning on the left. Then to follow the turning until he smelled stables-and there was the inn. I put it in the clearest manner, and never stumbled over a word.