illes, monsieur," he answered, and having helped push off
the boat, he stood with raised hat, watching us dive through the
breakers. Then he slowly climbed the sand again, and I saw him pass into
the gate of his fortified wall.

It was strange. Against that man every possible Commandment could be
broken, but there was only one which he could have had any pleasure in
breaking himself. And as I sat at Marseilles, watching the happy crowds
of men and women pass to and fro, it appeared to me that he would have
been at liberty to break that Commandment without leaving his native
city.

XXXVIII

A FAREWELL TO FLEET STREET

It is still early, but dinner is over--not the club dinner with its
buzzing conversation, nor yet the restaurant dinner, hurried into the
ten minutes between someone's momentous speech and the leader that has
to be written on it. The suburban dinner is over, and there was no need
to hurry. They tell me I shall be healthier now. What do I care about
being healthier?

Shall I sit with a novel over the fire? Shall I take life at second-hand
and work up an interest in imaginary loves and the exigencies of
shadows? What are all the firesides and fictions of the world to me that
I should loiter here and doze, doze, as good as die?

They tell me it is a fine thing to take a little walk before bed-time. I
go out into the suburban street. A thin, wet mist hangs over the silent
and monotonous houses, and blurs the electric lamps along our road.
There will be a fog in Fleet Street to-night, but everyone is too busy
to notice it. How friendly a fog made us all! How jolly it was that
night when I ran straight into a _Chronicle_ man, and got a lead of him
by a short head over the same curse! There's no chance of running into
anyone here, let alone cursing! A few figures slouch past and disappear;
the last postman goes his round, knocking at one house in ten; up and
down the asphalt path leading into the obscurity of the Common a
wretched woman wanders in vain; the long, pointed windows of a chapel
glimmer with yellowish light through the dingy air, and I hear the faint
groans of a harmonium cheering the people dismally home. The groaning
ceases, the lights go out, service is over; it will soon be time for
decent people to be in bed.

In Fleet Street the telegrams will now be falling thick as--No, I won't
say it! No Vallombrosa for me, nor any other journalistic tag! I
remember once a young sub-editor had