doubtful greeting and a demand for a deposit of money, for fear lest he
should be some vulgar bilker. Then, once he is in the lift, he goes up
and up without stopping, until the very topmost floor is reached. And
afterwards he is marched along interminable passages, with walls painted
a crude, hideous shade of blue, so offensive to all artistic instinct as
verily to make one's gorge rise. Then at last he finds himself in a room
which, high as it is situated, is of lowly, common aspect. Yet he is only
too glad to reach it, and throw himself on the bed to rest awhile, and to
think.

New experiences are awaiting him. He is far away from the mob that pelted
his windows with stones and yelled 'Conspuez! Conspuez!' whenever he left
his house. Here there is no hostility. Here quietude prevails, save for
the shrill whistles of arriving or departing trains. Yet he is also far
from the great majority of his affections and friendships. But at this
remembrance a fresh thought comes to him; he takes one of his visiting
cards from his pocket-book, pencils a few lines on it, and encloses it in
an envelope ready to be posted. Then he again lies down; tired as he is,
after his exciting day at Versailles and his wearisome night journey, he
soon falls soundly asleep.



II

IN LONDON

On Tuesday, July 19, I went to London on business, and did not return to
my home in the south-western suburbs until nearly seven o'clock in the
evening. My wife immediately placed in my hands an envelope addressed to