hat he had been so upset by the
grotesque scene with Mr. Haim in the basement of No. 8. Everything was
all right; everything was utterly for the best.

CHAPTER VI

THE DINNER

I

Early on the morning of a Tuesday in the second half of June 1903,
George Cannon was moving fast on a motor-bicycle westwards down the
slope of Piccadilly. At any rate he had the sensation of earliness, and
was indeed thereby quite invigorated; it almost served instead of the
breakfast which he had not yet taken. But thousands of people travelling
in the opposite direction in horse-omnibuses and in a few motor-buses
seemed to regard the fact of their being abroad at that hour as dully
normal. They had fought, men and girls, for places in the crammed
vehicles; they had travelled from far lands such as Putney; they had
been up for hours, and the morning, which was so new to George, had lost
its freshness for them; they were well used to the lustrous summer
glories of the Green Park; what they chiefly beheld in the Green Park
was the endless lines of wayfarers, radiating from Victoria along the
various avenues, on the way, like themselves, to offices, ware-houses,
and shops. Of the stablemen, bus-washers, drivers, mechanics,
chauffeurs, and conductors, who had left their beds much in advance even
of the travellers, let us not speak--even they had begun the day later
than their wives, mothers, or daughters. All this flying population,
urged and preoccupied by pitiless time, gazed down upon George and saw a
gay young swell without a care in the world rushing on 'one of those
motor-bikes' to freedom.

George was well aware of the popular gaze, and he supported it with
negligent pride. He had the air of having been born to greatness;
cigarette smoke and the fumes of exploded petrol and the rattle of
explosions made a fine wake behind his greatness. In two years, since he
had walked into Mr. Haim's parlour, his body had broadened, his eyes
had slightly hardened, and his complexion and hair had darkened. And
there was his moustache, very sprightly, and there was a glint of gold
in his teeth. He had poor teeth, but luxuriant hair, ruthlessly cut and
disciplined and subjugated. His trousers were clipped tightly at the
ankles, and his jacket loosely buttoned by the correct button; his soft
felt hat achieved the architect's ideal of combining the perfectly
artistic with the perfectly modish. But the most remarkable and
envy-raising portion of