trange houses, or in the heat and fume of Fleet Street offices. But
what nights they were! What things have we seen done--not at The
Mermaid--but in every tiny street and alley of nocturnal London!

There were nights of delirium when the pulses hammered hot in rhythm to
the old song of Carnival, when one seemed to have reached the very apex
of living, to have grasped in one evening the message of this revolving
world. There were nights, festive with hoof and harness bell. There were
cheery nights of homeward walks from the City office at six o'clock,
under those sudden Octobral dusks, when, almost at a wink, London is
transformed into one long lake of light. There were nights of elusive
fog and bashful lamp when one made casual acquaintance on the way home
with some darling little work-girl, Ethel, or Katie, or Mabel,
brown-haired or golden, and walked with her and perhaps were allowed to
kiss her Good-night at this or that crossing.

What romantic charm those little London work-girls have, with their
short, tossing frocks and tumbling hair! There are no other work-girls
in the world to compare with them for sheer witchery of face and
character. The New York work-girl is a holy terror. The Parisian
grisette has a trim figure and a doughy face. The Berlin work-girl knows
more about viciousness, and looks more like a suet dumpling than any one
else. But, though her figure may not be perfect, the London work-girl
takes the palm by winsomeness and grace. At seven o'clock every evening
you may meet her in thousands in Oxford Street, Villiers Street,
Tottenham Court Road, or London Bridge, where the pavements lisp in
reply to the chatter of her little light feet. The factory girl of
twenty years ago has, I am glad to say, entirely disappeared. She was
not a success. She screwed her hair into sausages and rolled them around
her ears. She wore a straw hat tilted at an absurd angle over her nose.
She snarled. Her skin was coarse, her hands brutal, and she took no care
with herself. But the younger generation came along, the flapper--and
behold, a change! The factory girl or work-girl of fourteen or fifteen
would surprise the ladies of the old school. She is neat. She knows
enough about things to take care of herself, without being coarsened by
the knowledge. And she has a zest for life and a respect for her dear
little person which give her undisputed title to all that I have claimed
for her. Long may she reign as one of London'