om his
seat. "Sometimes one is almost compelled to believe in a Divinity that
shapes our criticism of life."

"Shillin'," said the box-office man, when Mr. Clarkson asked for a
stall. "Evenin' dress hoptional" And Mr. Clarkson entered the vast
theatre.

It was crammed throughout. Every seat was taken, and excited crowds of
straw-hatted youths, elderly men, and sweltering women stood thick at
the back of the pit and down the sides of the stalls. "'Not here, O
Apollo,'" quoted Mr. Clarkson sadly, as he squeezed on to the end of a
seat beside a big man who had spread himself over two. "But still, even
in the lower middle, beauty may have its place."

"Warm," said the big man conversationally.

"Unavoidably, with so fine an audience," replied Mr. Clarkson, with his
grateful smile for any sign of friendliness.

"Like it warm?" asked the big man, turning upon Mr. Clarkson, as though
he had said he preferred babies scolloped.

"Well, I rather enjoy the sense of common humanity," said Mr. Clarkson,
apologising.

"Enjoy common humanity?" said the big man, mopping his head. "Can't say
I do. 'Cos why, I was born perticler."

For a moment Mr. Clarkson was tempted to claim a certain fastidiousness
himself. But he refrained, and only remarked, "What _is_ a Beauty Show?"

The big man turned slowly to contemplate him again, and then, slowly
turning back, regarded his empty pipe with sad attention.

"'Ear that, Albert?" he whispered at last, leaning over to a smart
little fellow in front, who was dressed in a sportsmanlike manner, and
displayed a large brass horseshoe and hunting crop stuck sideways in his
tie.

"The ignorance of the upper classes is somethink shockin'," the
sportsman replied, imitating Mr. Clarkson's Oxford accent. Then turning
back half an eye upon Mr. Clarkson, like a horse that watches its rider,
he added, "You wait and see, old cock, same as the Honourable Asquith."

"Isn't the retort a trifle middle-aged?" suggested Mr. Clarkson, with
friendly cheerfulness.

"Who's that he's callin' middle-aged?" cried a girl, sharply facing
round, and removing the sportsman's arm from her waist.

"I only meant," pleaded Mr. Clarkson, "that an obsolescent jest is, like
middle-age, occasionally vapid, possessing neither the interest of
antiquity nor the freshness of surprise."

"Very well, then," said the girl, flouncing back and seeking Albert's
arm again; "you just keep your tongue to yourself, same as me mine,