love them. But being a foreign resident, I am somewhat oppressed by
them. I crave in them a little freedom of speech, even though such
freedom were their ruin. I long for their silence to be broken here
and there, even though such breakage broke them with it. It is not
enough for me to hear a hushed exchange of mild jokes about the
weather, or of comparisons between what the Times says and what the
Standard says. I pine for a little vivacity, a little boldness, a
little variety, a few gestures. A London club, as it is conducted,
seems to me very like a catacomb. It is tolerable so long as you do
not actually belong to it. But when you do belong to it, when you have
outlived the fleeting gratification at having been elected, when
you...but I ought not to have fallen into the second person plural.
You, readers, are free-born Englishmen. These clubs `come natural' to
you. You love them. To them you slip eagerly from your homes. As for
me, poor alien, had I been a member of the club whose demolition has
been my theme, I should have grieved for it not one whit the more
bitterly. Indeed, my tears would have been a trifle less salt. It was
my detachment that enabled me to be so prodigal of pity.

The poor waifs! Long did I stand, in the sunshine of that day when
first I saw the ruin, wondering and distressed, ruthful, indignant
that such things should be. I forgot on what errand I had come out. I
recalled it. Once or twice I walked away, bent on its fulfilment. But
I could not proceed further than a few yards. I halted, looked over my
shoulder, was drawn back to the spot, drawn by the crude, insistent
anthem of the pick-axes. The sun slanted towards Notting Hill. Still I
loitered, spellbound... I was aware of some one at my side, some one
asking me a question. `I beg your pardon?' I said. The stranger was a
tall man, bronzed and bearded. He repeated his question. In answer, I
pointed silently to the ruin. `That?' he gasped. He stared vacantly. I