But mostly I have separate, vivid pictures of London--individual things that I saw, idle, pointless things that I did, which cheer and amuse and please me even now whenever I think of them. Thus I recall venturing one noon into one of the Lyons restaurants just above Regent Street in Piccadilly and being struck with the size and importance of it even though it was intensely middle class. It was a great chamber, decorated after the fashion of a palace ball-room, with immense chandeliers of prismed glass hanging from the ceiling, and a balcony furnished in cream and gold where other tables were set, and where a large stringed orchestra played continuously during lunch and dinner. An enormous crowd of very commonplace people were there--clerks, minor officials, clergymen, small shop-keepers--and the bill of fare was composed of many homely dishes such as beef-and-kidney pie, suet pudding, and the like--combined with others bearing high-sounding French names. I mention this Lyons restaurant because there were several quite like it, and because it catered to an element not reached in quite the same way in America. In spite of the lifted eyebrows with which Barfleur greeted my announcement that I had been there, the food was excellent; and the service, while a little slow for a place of popular patronage, was good. I recall being amused by the tall, thin, solemn English head-waiters in frock coats, leading the exceedingly _bourgeois_ customers to their tables. The English curate with his shovel hat was here in evidence and the minor clerk. I found great pleasure in studying this world, listening to the music, and thinking of the vast ramifications of London which it represented; for every institution of this kind represents a perfect world of people. Another afternoon I went to the new Roman Catholic Cathedral in Westminster to hear a fourteenth-century chant which was given between two and three by a company of monks who were attached to the church. In the foggy London atmosphere a church of this size takes on great gloom, and the sound of these voices rolling about in it was very impressive. Religion seems of so little avail these days, however, that I wondered why money should be invested in any such structure or liturgy. Or why able-bodied, evidently material-minded men should concern themselves with any such procedure. There were scarcely a half-dozen people present, if so many; and yet this vast edifice echoes every day at this hour with these voices--a company of twenty or thirty fat monks who seemingly might be engaged in something better. Of religion--the spirit as opposed to the form--one might well guess that there was little.