eavenly Father that to-morrow is Monday.

AT RANDOM

_TWO IN A TAXI_

_From Gloucester Square to Golder's Green,
We flash through misty fields of light.
Oh, many lovely things are seen
From Gloucester Square to Golder's Green!
We reign together, king and queen,
Over the lilied London night.
From Gloucester Square to Golder's Green,
We flash through misty fields of light._

_So, driver, drive your taxi well
To Golder's Green from Gloucester Square.
This dreaming night may cast a spell;
So, driver, drive your taxi well.
I have a wondrous tale to tell:
Immortal Love is now your fare!
So, driver, drive your taxi well
To Golder's Green from Gloucester Square!_

AT RANDOM

I originally planned this chapter to cover A German Night amid the two
German colonies of Great Charlotte Street and Highbury; but I have a
notion that the public has read all that it wants to read about Germans
in London. Anyway, neither spot is lovable. I have never been able to
determine whether the Germans went to Highbury and the Fitzroy regions
because they found their atmosphere ready-made, or whether the districts
have acquired their atmosphere from the German settlers. Certainly they
have everything that is most Germanically oppressive: mist, large women,
lager and leberwurst, and a moral atmosphere of the week before last
that conveys to the mind the physical sensations of undigested cold
sausage. So I was leaving Great Charlotte Street, and its Kaiser, its
_kolossal_ and its _kultur_, to hop on the first motor-'bus that passed,
and let it take me where it would--a favourite trick of mine--when I ran
into Georgie.

I have mentioned Georgie before. Georgie is one of London's echoes--one
of those sturdy Bohemians who stopped living when Sala died. If you
frequent the Strand or Fleet Street or Oxford Street you probably know
him by sight. He is short. He wears a frock-coat, buttoned at the waist
and soup-splashed at the lapels. His boots are battered, his trousers
threadbare. He carries jaunty eye-glasses, a jaunty silk hat, and shaves
once a week. He walks with both hands in trousers pockets and feet
out-splayed. The poor laddie is sadly outmoded, but he doesn't know it.
He still lunches on a glass of stout and biscuit-and-cheese at "The Bun
Shop" in the Strand. He stills drinks whisky at ten o'clock in the
morning. He still cl