THREE EXCEPTIONAL MEN.

"If these men are types, how London has changed!" I said to myself. But can
they be? I fear not; I fear that "exceptional" is the only word to use. Yet
it was very remarkable to meet them all on the same day, Friday, June 25th.

The first was on an omnibus. A big man with a grey beard who was alone on
the seat. Several other seats had only one passenger; the rest--mine among
them--were full. At Westminster came up a youth and a girl who very
obviously were lovers. Owing to the disposition of the seats they had to
separate, the girl subsiding into the place beside the big man immediately
in front of me. At first he said nothing, and then, just as we were passing
the scaffolding of the Cenotaph, he did something which proved him to be
very much out of the common, a creature apart. Reaching across and touching
the youth on the shoulder, he said, "Let me change places with you. I
expect you young people would like to sit together."

That was exceptional, you will agree. He was right too; the young people
did like to sit together. I could see that. And the more the omnibus rocked
and lurched the more they liked it.

The second exceptional man was a taxi-driver. I wanted to get to a certain
office before it shut, and there were very few minutes to do it in. The
driver did his best, but we arrived just too late; the door was locked.

"That's a bit of hard luck," he said. "But they're all so punctual closing
now. It's the daylight-saving does it. Makes people think of the open-air
more than they used."