ce, and
the author imagines they may reveal to the reader something of the
mentality which wrote this book. A mentality somewhat alien to the
English, since it was profoundly interested in women without incurring
any suspicion of French naughtiness, or endeavouring in any way to
make itself pleasing to them. A mentality hampered by an almost
hysterical shyness which, however, was capable of swift and complete
evaporation in certain circumstances.

So far, let it be premised, the shyness was still in evidence, and the
author became as silent and austere as the other members of the
company. There was a youth, in trousers obviously pressed under his
mattress, and a coat too short for him, whose air of shabby smartness
brought tears to the eyes of the author, who had passed through very
much the same purgatory years before. Indeed it was very much like a
coffee room in purgatory, if the reader can imagine such a thing, for
every one of the patrons had this distinguishing trait--they were
shackled and tortured and seared by the lack of a little money. The
mangy old waif who asked for a cup of tea and furtively fished out of
a little black oil-cloth bag a couple of thick sandwiches; the
middle-aged person with a fine moustache, frock-coat, and silk-hat,
who ordered coffee and bacon and eggs, and forgot to eat while his
tired eyes fixed themselves with insane intensity upon a mineral-water
advertisement on the opposite wall; the foreign lady (whom the author
hastens to record as a virtuous matron) whose bizarre hat and brightly
painted cheeks were stowed away in an obscure and lonely corner where
she pored over a Greek newspaper; the middle-aged gentleman whose
marbled note-book was filled with incredibly fine writing and columns
of figures which ought to have meant something substantial, but which
were probably only lists of bad debts utterly uncollectable--all these
poor people would have been carried up to heaven had they suddenly
discovered under their plates a twenty-pound note. And the desire to
do this thing, to play the rich uncle for once, was at times so keen
that the author felt himself in purgatory, too, in a way, and lost his
appetite thinking about it.

The reader may opine that such a meal would be but a poor preliminary
for a morning of study, but the fact remains that the contemplation
of misery stimulates one's mental perceptions. Once more out in the
Strand, having watched the young woman descend the narro