cannot make out how it is that these little boats turn about as they
do, apparently of their own accord. And the scene has continually a
number of spectators. (This was before the war.)

One day I was looking in at this window, very much interested in this
problem. Standing next to me was a fine specimen of a Pall Mallian,
with his silk "topper," his black tail coat, his buttonhole, his
checked trowsers, his large grey spats, his shining boots, his stick
and his glass on its ribbon, apparently equally absorbed. I turned to
him after a hit--a quite natural thing to do, I thought--and, "How the
deuce do you suppose that thing works?" I said.

The tall gentleman slowly turned. Slowly, stiffly, with an
aristocratic gesture, he raised his arm and placed his glass in his
eye, for a moment. I was frozen by his blank stare, quite through.
Then he lifted his eyebrow; the glass dropped and bounded before him on
its ribbon. And he turned and walked away. Walked away, I dare say,
to his frowning club, to tell how he had just been set upon in the
street and insulted by some strange ruffian. But, you see, I didn't
know; I was an American.

To Epsom I went in a cart to see the Derby. It was at Epsom, you know,
that the King's horse was thrown several seasons ago by a suffragette
who lost her life in the act. Well, most of the fine gentlemen of
England, I think, were there, all in splendid tall grey hats and with
their field glasses slung over their shoulders. And a horde of the
cleverest crooks in Europe also.

There I had my pocket "cut" by a pickpocket. That is the way they go
through you in England, neatly lift your pocket out. I thought this