the Mary Curzon Hotel,
and the Lyceum Club, why on earth should they?

The R.B.A. pulled up short and said there we were, and what about it? We
knocked at the door, and were admitted by an anarchist. At least, I
think he was an anarchist, because he was just like the pictures. I have
met only eighteen real anarchists, two of whom had thrown a bomb; but I
could never really believe in them; they wore morning coats and bowler
hats and were clean-shaven.

"Where are they?" asked the R.B.A.

"They're awa' oopstairs, laddie," said the anarchist. "Taak heed ye
dinna stoomble; the carrrpet's a wee bit loose."

We crossed the tiny hall and ascended the shabby stairs. From an open
door trickled the tones of a cheap piano and the mellow, philosophic
chant of the 'cello. They were playing Elgar's "Salut d'Amour." The room
was dark save for one candle at the piano and the dancing firelight. In
the dusk it looked like Balestieri's picture of "Beethoven" which adorns
every suburban drawing-room with a leaning towards the Artistic. People
were sprawled here and there, but to distinguish them was impossible. I
fell over some one's foot, and a light treble gurgled at me, "Sorry, old
boy!" I caught a whisk of curls as the thin gleam of the candle fell
that way. The R.B.A. crossed the room as one who was familiar with its
topography, and settled himself in a far chair. The anarchist took my
arm, and said:--

"Do ye sit down whurr ye can, laddie. And ye'll ha' a drink?"

I fell over some more feet and collapsed on a low settee. I found myself
by the side of a lady in solemn crimson. Her raven hair was hanging down
her back. Her arms were bare. She smoked a Virginia cigarette
vindictively. Sometimes she leaned forward, addressed the piano, and
said: "Shut that row, Mollie, can't you. We want to talk."

The anarchist brought me a Scotch-and-soda, and then she became aware of
my presence. She looked at me; she looked at the drink. She said to the
anarchist: "Where's mine?" He said: "What is it?" "Crem-dermont!" she
snapped.

Out of the smoky glooms of the room came light laughter and merry
voices. One saw dimly, as in a dream, graceful forms reclining
gracefully, attended by carelessly dressed but distinguished young men.
Some of these raised their voices, and one heard the self-proud accent
of Oxford. The music stopped, and the girls sprawled themselves more and
more negligently, nestling to the rough coats of the boys. The haze of