Besides, one's fellow-creatures are so amusing: especially in the
Strand. I had seen a proud and gorgeously upholstered lady lolling
languidly in a motor car, and looking extremely pleased with herself--
not without reason; and I had met two successful men of great
presence, who reminded me somehow of "Porkin and Snob"; and I had
noticed a droll little bundle of a baby, in a fawn-coloured woollen
suit, with a belt slipped almost to her knees, and sweet round eyes
as purple as pansies, who was hunting a rolling apple amongst "the
wild mob's million feet"; and I had seen a worried-looking matron,
frantically waving her umbrella to the driver of an omnibus, endanger
the silk hat of Porkin and disturb the complacency of Snob; and I
felt glad.

It was at that moment that there popped into my head the full style
and title I had earned. "Notorious Infidel Editor of the _Clarion_!"
These be brave words, indeed. For a moment they almost flattered me
into the belief that I had become a member of the higher criminal
classes: a bold bad man, like Guy Fawkes, or Kruger, or
R. B. Cuninghame Graham.

"You ought," I said to myself, "to dress the part. You ought to have
an S.D.P. sombrero, a slow wise Fabian smile, and the mysterious
trousers of a Soho conspirator."

But at the instant I caught a sight of my counterfeit presentment
in a shop window, and veiled my haughty crest. _That_ a notorious
Infidel! Behold a dumpy, comfortable British _paterfamilias_ in a
light flannel suit and a faded sun hat. No; it will not do. Not
a bit like Mephisto: much more like the Miller of the Dee.