and insurance companies in Piccadilly. And the sense of Empire was
in the very air, like an intoxication. And there was no place like
London. When, however, having run through Piccadilly into streets less
superb, he reached the Majestic, it seemed to him that the Majestic
was not a part of London, but a bit of the provinces surrounded by
London. He was very disappointed with the Majestic, and took his
letters from the clerk with careless condescension. In a few days the
Majestic had sunk from being one of "London's huge caravanserais" to
the level of a swollen Turk's Head. So fragile are reputations!

From the Majestic Edward Henry drove back into the regions of Empire,
between Piccadilly and Regent Street, and deigned to call upon his
tailors. A morning-suit which he had commanded being miraculously
finished, he put it on, and was at once not only spectacularly but
morally regenerated. The old suit, though it had cost five guineas
in its time, looked a paltry and a dowdy thing as it lay, flung down
anyhow, on one of Messrs Quayther & Cuthering's cane chairs in the
mirrored cubicle where baronets and even peers showed their braces to
the benign Mr. Cuthering.

"I want to go to Piccadilly Circus now. Stop at the fountain," said
Edward Henry to his chauffeur. He gave the order somewhat defiantly,
because he was a little self-conscious in the new and gleaming suit,
and because he had an absurd idea that the chauffeur might guess that
he, a provincial from the Five Towns, was about to venture into West
End theatrical enterprise and sneer at him accordingly.

But the chauffeur merely touched his cap with an indifferent and lofty
gesture, as if to say:

"Be at ease. I have driven persons more moon-struck even than you.
Human eccentricity has long since ceased to surprise me."

The fountain in Piccadilly Circus was the gayest thing in London. It
mingled the fresh tinkling of water with the odour and flame of autumn
blossoms and the variegated colours of shawled women who passed their
lives on its margin engaged in the commerce of flowers. Edward Henry
bought an aster from a fine bold, red-cheeked, blowsy, dirty wench
with a baby in her arms, and left some change for the baby. He was in
a very tolerant and charitable mood, and could excuse the sins and the
stupidity of all mankind. He reflected forgivingly that Rose Euclid
and her friends had perhaps not displayed an abnormal fatuity in
discussing the name of the theatre b