boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left
no address behind him, and no name.


Chapter 6

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are
unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician
or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with
those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.

The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of
gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it,
and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted
no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: he
would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the
rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to
most rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. He
was not as courteous as the average rich man, nor as
intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and
his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and
because he was modern they were always craving better food.
Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured
civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite
status, his rank and his income would have corresponded.
But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen,
enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and
proclaiming, "All men are equal--all men, that is to say,
who possess umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert
gentility, lest he slipped into the abyss where nothing