your
National Gallery, which I well remember visiting in '93, is a most
wretched affair architecturally.'

'But I want to see rather more of the south side of the river,' he added,
after a pause. 'I should like to ascertain if my lion is still there. I
recollect that there was some fog about on the morning after my arrival
at the Savoy in '93; and when I went to the window of my room I noticed
the mist parting--one mass of vapour ascending skyward, while the other
still hovered over the river. And, in the rent between, I espied a lion,
poised in mid air. It amused me vastly; and I called my wife, saying to
her, "Come and see. Here's the British lion waiting to bid us good-day."'

We went to the end of the bridge and thence espied the lion which
surmounts the brewery of that name. M. Zola recognised it immediately.
Desmoulin would then have led us Strandward; but the Strand, said I, was
about the most dangerous thoroughfare in all London for those who wished
to escape recognition; so we went back over the bridge and again down the
Waterloo road.

'I should like very much to send a line to Paris to-day to stop letters
from going to the Grosvenor,' said M. Zola. 'Is there any place
hereabouts where I could write a note?'

This question perplexed me, for the numerous facilities for
letter-writing which are supplied by the cafes of Paris are conspicuously
absent in London; and this I explained to M. Zola. A postage stamp may
often be procured at a public-house, but only now and again can one there
obtain ink and paper. However, I thought we might as well try the saloon
bar of the York Hotel, which abuts on the famous 'Poverty Corner,' so
much frequented by ladies and gentlemen of the 'halls,' when, sorely
against their inclinations, they are 'resting.'

It was Thursday afternoon; still there were several disconsolate-looking
individuals lounging about the corner; and in the saloon bar we found
some fourteen or fifteen loudly dressed men and women typical of the
spot. I forget what I ordered for Desmoulin and myself, but M. Zola, I
know imbibed, mainly for the good of the house, 'a small lemon plain.'
Then we ascertained that the young lady at the bar had neither stamps,
nor paper, nor envelopes, and so we were again in a quandary. Fortunately
I recollected a little stationer's shop in the York Road, and leaving the
others in the saloon bar, I went in search of the requisite materials.

When I returned I found the mast